m 


SK? 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/.  A-  & 


A  Holiday  in  Bed 


And  other  Sketches. 


BY 

J.    M.   BARRIE, 

AUTHOR   OF 

The  Little  Minister.  A  Window  in  Thrums. 

Auld  Licht  Idylls,  etc. 


With  a  short  biographical  Sketch  of  the  author 


NEW  YORK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK. 


Copyrighted  1892, 
NKW  YORK  PUBLISHING  CO. 


PRESS   AND    BINDERY  OF 

HISTORICAL  PUBLISHING  CO., 

PHILADELPHIA,  PA. 


fR 
HI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 


James   Matthew  Barrie, 15 

A  Holiday  in  Bed, 23 

Life  in  a  Country   Manse, 37 

L,ife  in  a  Country   Manse — A   Wedding  in 

a  Smiddy, 49 

A   Powerful  Drug,      -    -    -    - 61 

Every  Man  His  own   Doctor, 73 

Gretna  Green    Revisited, 87 

My  Favorite  Authoress, m 

The  Captain  of  the  School, 121 

Thoughtful  Boys  Make  Thoughtful  Men,  131 

lT>   ------    - 145 

To  the  Influenza, 153 

Four-in-Hand   Novelists, 16 r 

Rules  on   Carving, 173 

On   Running   After  a  Hat, 179 


tfV- 


JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE. 


JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE  was  born  at 
Kirriemuir,  Forfarshire,  on  May  9,  i860. 
Kirriemuir,  as  soberly  stated  by  the  Encyclo- 
pedia Britcuinica,  is  "a  borough  of  barony  and  a 
market  town  of  Forfarshire,  Scotland,  beautifully 
situated  on  an  eminence  above  the  glen  through 
which  the  Gairie  flows.  It  lies  about  five  miles 
northwest  of  Forfar,  and  about  sixty-two  miles 
north  of  Edinburgh.  The  special  industry  of  the 
town  is  linen  weaving,  for  which  large  power-loom 
factories  have  recently  been  built."  Mr.  Barrie 
has  made  his  birthplace  famous  as  Thrums,  after 
hesitating  for  a  little  between  that  name  and  Whins, 
which  is  the  word  used  in  the  earliest  Auld  Licht 
sketches. 

Only  a  part  of  Mr.  Barrie' s  boyhood  was  spent 
in  Kirriemuir.  At  an  early  age  he  went  to  Dum- 
fries, where  his  brother  was  inspector  of  schools. 
He  was  a  pupil  in  the  Dumfries  Academy.  At  that 
time  Thomas  Carlyle  was  a  not  unfrequent  visitor 

15 


16  JAMES   MATTHEW   BARRIE. 

to  the  town,  where  his  sister,  Mrs.  Aitken,  and  his 
friend,  the  venerable  poet  editor  Thomas  Aird, 
were  then  living. 

Carlyle  is  the  only  author  by  whom  Mr.  Barrie 
thinks  he  has  been  influenced.     The  Carlyle  fever 
did   not   last  very  long,  but  was   acute  for  a  time. 
He   fervently    defended    his    master    against    the 
innumerable    critics    called    into    activity  by    Mr. 
Froude's  biography.     Apart   from   this,    Dumfries 
seems  to  have  left  no  very  definite   mark  on  his 
mind.      The   only   one   of   his    teachers   who    im- 
pressed him  was  Dr.  Cranstoun,  the  accomplished 
translator    from    the    Latin    poets,    and    he  rather 
indirectly  than  directly.      In  the  Dumfries  papers 
Mr.  Barrie  inaugurated  his  literary  career  by  con- 
tributing accounts  of  cricket   matches  and  letters, 
signed  "  Paterfamilias,"  urging  the  desirability  of 
pupils  having  longer  holidays.      He  was  the  idlest 
of  schoolboys,  and  seldom  opened  his  books  except 
to  draw  pictures  on  them. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  Mr.  Barrie  entered  Edin- 
burgh University.  His  brother  had  studied  in 
Aberdeen  with  another  famous  native  of  Kirrie- 
muir, Dr.  Alexander  Whyte,  of  Free  St.  George's, 
Edinburgh.     At   Aberdeen  you  could   live   much 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE.  1 7 

more  cheaply,  also  it  was  easier  there  to  get  a  burs- 
ary, enough  to  keep  soul  and  body  together  till  an 
income  could  be  earned.  The  struggles  and  tri- 
umphs of  Aberdeen  students  greatly  impressed  Mr. 
Barrie,  who  has  often  repeated  the  story  thus  told 
in  the  Nottingham  Journal : — 

' '  I  knew  three  undergraduates  who  lodged  to- 
gether in  a  dreary  house  at  the  top  of  a  dreary 
street,  two  of  whom  used  to  study  until  two  in  the 
morning,  while  the  third  slept.  When  they  shut 
up  their  books  they  woke  number  three,  who  arose, 
dressed,  and  studied  till  breakfast  time.  Among 
the  many  advantages  of  this  arrangement,  the  chief 
was  that,  as  they  were  dreadfully  poor,  one  bed  did 
for  the  three.  Two  of  them  occupied  it  at  one 
time,  and  the  third  at  another.  Terrible  priva- 
tions? Frightful  destitution  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  The 
Millennium  was  in  those  days.  If  life  was  at  the 
top  of  a  hundred  steps,  if  students  occasionally 
died  of  hunger  and  hard  work  combined,  if  the 
midnight  oil  only  burned  to  show  a  ghastly  face 
1  weary  and  worn,'  if  lodgings  were  cheap  and  dirty, 
and  dinners  few  and  far  between,  life  was  still  real 
and  earnest,  in  many  cases  it  did  not  turn  out  an 
empty  dream." 

2 


1 8  JAMES  MATTHEW   BARRIE. 

In  1882  he  graduated,  and  was  for  some  months 
in  Edinburgh  doing  nothing  in  particular.  In  the 
meantime  he  saw  an  advertisement  asking  for  a 
leader  writer  to  an  English  provincial  paper.  The 
salary  offered  was  three  guineas  a  week.  He  made 
application  for  this,  and  found  himself,  in  February, 
1883,  installed  as  leader  writer  to  the  Nottingham 
Journal.  He  was  not  editor,  the  work  of  arrang- 
ing the  paper  being  in  other  hands  ;  but  he  was 
allowed  to  write  as  much  as  he  pleased,  and  pract- 
ically what  he  pleased. 

During  the  last  months  of  his  stay  in  Notting- 
ham, Mr.  Barrie  had  begun  to  send  articles  to  the 
London  papers.  The  first  of  these  was  published 
by  Mr.  Stead,  then  editing  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

In  March,  1888,  a  much  more  important  book, 
uAuld  Licht  Idyls,' '  was  published.  When  Mr. 
Barrie  came  up  to  London  he  had  letters  of  intro- 
duction from  Professor  Masson  to  an  eminent  pub- 
lisher, and  to  Mr.  John  Morley.  He  took  his 
"  Auld  Licht  Idyls"  to  the  publisher,  and  was 
told  that,  although  they  were  pleasant  reading, 
they  would  never  be  successful  as  a  book.  Mr. 
Morley,  then  editor  of  Macmillan,  asked  him  to 
send  a  list  of  subjects  on  which  he  was  willing  to 


JAMES  MATTHEW   BARRIE.  1 9 

write.  The  request  was  complied  with,  but  the 
subjects  were  returned  by  Mr.  Morley  with  the 
singularly  uncharacteristic  comment  that  they  were 
not  sufficiently  up  to  date.  Mr.  Morley,  who  has 
since  read  with  great  admiration  all  Mr.  Barrie's 
works,  was  much  astonished  at  having  this  brought 
to  his  remembrance  the  other  day. 

"When  a  Man's  Single"  was  published  in  Sep- 
tember, 1888,  dedicated  to  W.  Robertson  Nicoll. 
The  story  was  originally  published  in  The  British 
Weekly,  but,  as  his  manner  is,  Mr.  Barrie  made 
great  changes  in  revising  it  for  publication.  It 
was  well  received,  and  was  pronounced  by  the 
Daily  News  as  "Perhaps  the  best  single  volume 
novel  of  the  year. ' '  It  is  not  at  all  autobiograph- 
ical, though  it  gives  the  author's  impressions  of 
journalistic  life  in  Nottingham  and  London.  Per- 
haps the  best  parts  of  it  are  those  devoted  to 
Thrums,  of  which  George  Meredith  expressed 
special  admiration. 

Mr.  Barrie's  greatest  book,  however,  was  yet  to 
come.  "A  Window  in  Thrums"  was  published 
in  May,  1889.  It  contained  articles  contributed  to 
the  National  Observer,  The  British  Weekly,  and 
the  St,  James" s  Gazette,  along  with  new  matter. 


20  JAMES   MATTHEW  BARRIE. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  it  was  received  with 
one  burst  of  acclamation.  It  has  been  the  most 
popular  of  the  author's  works,  and  it  is  hard  to 
conceive  how  he  can  surpass  certain  parts  of  it.  It 
has  found  admirers  among  all  classes. 

"  My  Lady  Nicotine,"  reprinted  from  the  St. 
James 's  Gazette,  was  published  in  April,  1890,  and 
a  second  edition  appeared  in  September,  1890,  and 
although  issued  later  than  '  'A  Window  in  Thrums, ' ' 
it  is  really  in  point  of  time  almost  the  first  of  the 
author's  books. 

In  January,  1891,  Mr.  Barrie  commenced  a  story 
in  Good  Words,  entitled  "The  Little  Minister," 
which  has  since  been  issued  in  book  form,  and  is 
acknowledged  to  be  his  best  book. 


A  HOLIDAY  IN  BED. 


A  HOLIDAY  IN  BED. 


NOW  is  the  time  for  a  real  holiday.  Take  it  in 
bed,  if  you  are  wise. 
People  have  tried  a  holiday  in  bed  before  now, 
and  found  it  a  failure,  but  that  was  because  they 
were  ignorant  of  the  rules.  They  went  to  bed 
with  the  open  intention  of  staying  there,  say,  three 
days,  and  found  to  their  surprise  that  each  morning 
they  wanted  to  get  up.  This  was  a  novel  experience 
to  them,  they  flung  about  restlessly,  and  probably 
shortened  their  holiday.  The  proper  thing  is  to 
take  your  holiday  in  bed  with  a  vague  intention  of 
getting  up  in  another  quarter  of  an  hour.  The 
real  pleasure  of  lying  in  bed  after  you  are  awake 
is  largely  due  to  the  feeling  that  you  ought  to  get 
up.  To  take  another  quarter  of  an  hour  then 
becomes  a  luxury.  You  are,  in  short,  in  the  posi- 
tion of  the  man  who  dined  on  larks.  Had  he 
seen  the  hundreds  that  were  ready  for  him,  all  set 
out  on  one  monster  dish,  they  would  have  turned 
his  stomach  ;  but  getting  them  two  at  a  time,  he 

23 


24  A    HOLIDAY   IN    BED. 

went  on  eating  till  all  the  larks  were  exhausted. 
His  feeling  of  uncertainty  as  to  whether  these 
might  not  be  his  last  two  larks  is  your  feeling  that, 
perhaps,  you  will  have  to  get  up  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  Deceive  yourself  in  this  way,  and  youi 
holiday  in  bed  will  pass  only  too  quickly. 

Sympathy  is  what  all  the  world  is  craving  for, 
and  sympathy  is  what  the  ordinary  holiday-maker 
never  gets.  How  can  we  be  expected  to  sympa- 
thize with  you  when  we  know  you  are  off  to  Perth- 
shire to  fish  ?  No  ;  we  say  we  wish  we  were  you, 
and  forget  that  your  holiday  is  sure  to  be  a  hollow 
mockery  ;  that  your  child  will  jam  her  finger  in 
the  railway  carriage,  and  scream  to  the  end  of  the 
journey  ;  that  you  will  lose  your  luggage  ;  that  the 
guard  will  notice  your  dog  beneath  the  seat,  and 
insist  on  its  being  paid  for  ;  that  you  will  be  caught 
in  a  Scotch  mist  on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  be 
put  on  gruel  for  a  fortnight  ;  that  your  wife  will 
fret  herself  into  a  fever  about  the  way  the  servant, 
who  has  been  left  at  home,  is  carrying  on  with  her 
cousins,  the  milkman  and  the  policeman  ;  and  that 
you  will  be  had  up  for  trespassing.  Yet,  when  you 
tell  us  you  are  off  to-morrow,  we  have  never  the 
sympathy  to  say,  "  Poor  fellow,  I  hope  you'll  pull 


A   HOLIDAY   IN    BED.  25 

through  somehow."  If  it  is  an  exhibition  you  go 
to  gape  at,  we  never  picture  you  dragging  your 
weary  legs  from  one  department  to  another,  and 
wondering  why  your  back  is  so  sore.  Should  it 
be  the  seaside,  we  talk  heartlessly  to  you  about  the 
' '  briny, ' '  though  we  must  know,  if  we  would  stop 
to  think,  that  if  there  is  one  holiday  more  misera- 
ble than  all  the  others,  it  is  that  spent  at  the  sea- 
side, when  you  wander  the  weary  beach  and  fling 
pebbles  at  the  sea,  and  wonder  how  long  it  will  be 
till  dinner  time.  Were  we  to  come  down  to  see 
you,  we  would  probably  find  you,  not  on  the  beach, 
but  moving  slowly  through  the  village,  looking  in 
at  the  one  milliner's  window,  or  laboriously  reading 
what  the  one  grocer's  labels  say  on  the  subject  of  pale 
ale,  compressed  beef,  or  vinegar.  There  was  never 
an  object  that  called  aloud  for  sympathy  more  than 
you  do,  but  you  get  not  a  jot  of  it.  You  should 
take  the  first  train  home  and  go  to  bed  for  three 
days. 

To  enjoy  your  holiday  in  bed  to  the  full,  you 
should  let  it  be  vaguely  understood  that  there  is 
something  amiss  with  you.  Don't  go  into  de- 
tails, for  they  are  not  necessary;  and,  besides,  you 
want  to  be  dreamy  more  or  less,  and  the  dreamy 


26  A  HOLIDAY   IN   BED. 

state  is  not  consistent  with  a  definite  ailment.  The 
moment  one  takes  to,  bed  he  gets  sympathy.  He 
may  be  suffering-  from  a  tearing  headache  or  a 
tooth  that  makes  him  cry  out;  but  if  he  goes  about 
his  business,  or  even  flops  in  a  chair,  true  sympathy 
is  denied  him.  Let  him  take  to  bed  with  one  of 
those  illnesses  of  which  he  can  say  with  accuracy 
that  he  is  not  quite  certain  what  is  the  matter  with 
him,  and  his  wife,  for  instance,  will  want  to  bathe 
his  brow.  She  must  not  be  made  too  anxious. 
That  would  not  only  be  cruel  to  her,  but  it  would 
wake  you  from  the  dreamy  state.  She  must  simply 
see  that  you  are  ' '  not  yourself. ' '  Women  have  an 
idea  that  unless  men  are  "not  themselves"  they 
will  not  take  to  bed,  and  as  a  consequence  your 
wife  is  tenderly  thoughtful  of  you.  Every  little 
while  she  will  ask  you  if  you  are  feeling  any  better 
now,  and  you  can  reply,  with  the  old  regard  for 
truth,  that  you  are  "much  about  it."  You  may 
even  (for  your  own  pleasure)  talk  of  getting  up  now, 
when  she  will  earnestly  urge  you  to  stay  in  bed 
'jintil  you  feel  easier.  You  consent;  indeed,  you 
ire  ready  to  do  anything  to  please  her. 

The  ideal  holiday  in  bed  does  not  require  the 
presence  of  a  ministering  angel   in  the  room  all 


A   HOLIDAY   IN    BED.  27 

day.  Yon  frequently  prefer  to  be  alone,  and  point 
out  to  your  wife  that  you  cannot  have  her  trifling 
with  her  health  for  your  sake,  and  so  she  must  go 
out  for  a  walk.  She  is  reluctant,  but  finally  goes, 
protesting  that  you  are  the  most  unselfish  of  men, 
and  only  too  good  for  her.  This  leaves  a  pleasant 
aroma  behind  it,  for  even  when  lying  in  bed,  we 
like  to  feel  that  we  are  uncommonly  fine  fellows. 
After  she  has  gone  you  get  up  cautiously,  and, 
walking  stealthily  to  the  wardrobe,  produce  from 
the  pocket  of  your  great  coat  a  good  novel.  A 
holiday  in  bed  must  be  arranged  for  beforehand. 
With  a  gleam  in  your  eye  you  slip  back  to  bed, 
double  your  pillow  to  make  it  higher,  and  begin  to 
read.  You  have  only  got  to  the  fourth  page,  when 
you  make  a  horrible  discovery — namely,  that  the 
book  is  not  cut.  An  experienced  holiday-maker 
would  have  had  it  cut  the  night  before,  but  this  is 
your  first  real  holiday,  or  perhaps  you  have  been 
thoughtless.  In  any  case  you  have  now  matter  to 
think  of.  You  are  torn  in  two  different  ways. 
There  is  your  coat  on  the  floor  with  a  knife  in  it, 
but  you  cannot  reach  the  coat  without  getting  up 
again.  Ought  you  to  get  the  knife  or  to  give  up 
reading  ?     Perhaps  it  takes  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 


28  A  HOLIDAY   IN   BED. 

decide  this  question,  and  you  decide  it  by  discover- 
ing a  third  course.  Being  a  sort  of  an  invalid,  you 
have  certain  privileges  which  would  be  denied  you 
if  you  were  merely  sitting  in  a  chair  in  the  agonies 
of  neuralgia.  One  of  the  glorious  privileges  of  a 
holiday  in  bed  is  that  you  are  entitled  to  cut  books 
with  your  fingers.  So  you  cut  the  novel  in  this 
way,  and  read  on. 

Those  who  have  never  tried  it  may  fancy  that 
there  is  a  lack  of  incident  in  a  holiday  in  bed. 
There  could  not  be  a  more  monstrous  mistake. 
You  are  in  the  middle  of  a  chapter,  when  suddenly 
you  hear  a  step  upon  the  stair.  Your  loving  ears 
tell  you  that  your  wife  has  returned,  and  is  hasten- 
ing to  you.  Now,  what  happens  ?  The  book  dis- 
appears beneath  the  pillow,  and  when  she  enters 
the  room  softly  you  are  lying  there  with  your  eyes 
shut.     This  is  not  merely  incident  ;  it  is  drama. 

What  happens  next  depends  on  circumstances. 
She  says  in  a  low  voice — 

' '  Are  you  feeling  any  easier  now,  John  ? ' ' 

No  answer. 

"  Oh,  I  believe  he  is  sleeping." 

Then  she  steals  from  the  room,  and  you  begin 
to  read  again. 


A    HOLIDAY    IX    BED.  29 

During  a  holiday  in  bed  one  never  thinks,  of 
course,  of  analyzing  his  actions.  If  you  had  done 
so  in  this  instance,  you  would  have  seen  that  you 
pretended  sleep  because  you  had  got  to  an  ex- 
citing passage.  You  love  your  wife,  but,  wife  or 
no  wife,  you  must  see  how  the  passage  ends. 

Possibly  the  little  scene  plays  differently,  as 
thus — 

' '  John,  are  you  feeling  any  easier  now  ?  ' ' 

No  answer. 

' '  Are  you  asleep  ?  ' ' 

No  answer. 

"What  a  pity!  I  don't  want  to  waken  him, 
and  yet  the  fowl  will  be  spoilt. ' ' 

"Is  that  you  back,  Marion?" 

' '  Yes,  dear  ;  I  thought  you  were  asleep. ' ' 

"No,  only  thinking." 

"You  think  too  much,  dear.  I  have  cooked  a 
chicken  for  you. ' ' 

"  I  have  no  appetite." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  can  give  it  to  the  children." 

' '  Oh,  as  it's  cooked,  you  may  as  well  bring  it  up. ' ' 

In  that  case  the  reason  of  your  change  of  action 
is  obvious.  But  why  do  you  not  let  your  wife 
know   that   you    have    been    reading?      This    is 


30  A  HOLIDAY  IN   BED 

another  matter  that  you  never  reason  about.  Per- 
haps, it  is  because  of  your  craving  for  sympathy, 
and  you  fear  that  if  you  were  seen  enjoying  a  novel 
the  sympathy  would  go.  Or,  perhaps,  it  is  that  a 
holiday  in  bed  is  never  perfect  without  a  secret. 
Monotony  must  be  guarded  against,  and  so  long  as 
you  keep  the  book  to  yourself  your  holiday  in  bed 
is  a  healthy  excitement.  A  stolen  book  (as  we 
may  call  it)  is  like  stolen  fruit,  sweeter  than  what 
you  can  devour  openly.  The  boy  enjoys  his  stolen 
apple,  because  at  any  moment  he  may  have  to  slip 
it  down  the  leg  of  his  trousers,  and  pretend  that  he 
has  merely  climbed  the  tree  to  enjoy  the  scenery. 
You  enjoy  your  book  doubly  because  you  feel  that 
it  is  a  forbidden  pleasure.  Or,  do  you  conceal  the 
book  from  your  wife  lest  she  should  think  that  you 
are  over-exerting  yourself?  She  must  not  be  made 
anxious  on  your  account.     Ah,  that  is  it. 

People  who  pretend  (for  it  must  be  pretence)  that 
they  enjoy  their  holiday  in  the  country,  explain 
that  the  hills  or  the  sea  gave  them  such  an  appetite. 
I  could  never  myself  feel  the  delight  of  being  able 
to  manage  an  extra  herring  for  breakfast,  but  it 
should  be  pointed  out  that  neither  mountains  nor 
oceans  give  you  such  an  appetite  as- a  holiday  in 


A  HOLIDAY  IN   BED.  3 1 

bed.  What  makes  people  eat  more  anywhere  is 
that  they  have  nothing  else  to  do,  and  in  bed  you 
have  lots  of  time  for  meals.  As  for  the  quality  of 
the  food  supplied,  there  is  no  comparison.  In  the 
Highlands  it  is  ham  and  eggs  all  day  till  you 
sicken.  At  the  seaside  it  is  fish  till  the  bones  stick 
in  your  mouth.  But  in  bed — oh,  there  you  get 
something  worth  eating.  You  don't  take  three 
big  meals  a  day,  but  twelve  little  ones,  and  each 
time  it  is  something  different  from  the  last.  There 
are  delicacies  for  breakfast,  for  your  four  luncheons 
and  your  five  dinners.  You  explain  to  your  wife 
that  you  have  lost  your  appetite,  and  she  believes 
you,  but  at  the  same  time  she  has  the  sense  to 
hurry  on  your  dinner.  At  the  clatter  of  dishes 
(for  which  you  have  been  lying  listening)  you  raise 
your  poor  head,  and  say  faintly: 

u  Really,  Marion,  I  can't  touch  food." 
"  But  this  is  nothing,"  she  says,  "  only  the  wing 
of  a  partridge." 

You  take  a  side  glance  at  it,  and  see  that  there  is 
also  the  other  wing  and  the  body  and  two  legs. 
Your  alarm  thus  dispelled,  you  say — 
I  really  can't." 
But,  dear,  it  is  so  beautifully  cooked." 


u 


32  A  HOLIDAY   IN   BED. 

' '  Yes  ;  but  I  have  no  appetite. ' ' 
"  But  try  to  take  it,  John,  for  my  sake." 
Then  for  her  sake  you  say  she  can  leave  it  on 
the  chair,  and  perhaps  you  will  just  taste  it.  As 
soon  as  she  has  gone  you  devour  that  partridge, 
and  when  she  conies  back  she  has  the  sense  to 
say — 

' '  Why,  you  have  scarcely  eaten  anything.  What 
could  you  take  for  supper  ?' ' 

You  say  you  can  take  nothing,  but  if  she  likes 
she  can  cook  a  large  sole,  only  you  won't  be  able 
to  touch  it. 

"  Poor  dear  !"  she  says,  "  your  appetite  has  com- 
pletely gone,"  and  then  she  rushes  to  the  kitchen 
to  cook  the  sole  with  her  own  hands.  In  half-an- 
hour  she  steals  into  your  room  with  it,  and  then 
you  (who  have  been  wondering  why  she  is  such  a 
time)  start  up  protesting, 

"  I  hope,  Marion,  this  is  nothing  for  me." 
' '  Only  the  least  little  bit  of  a  sole,  dear. ' ' 
"  But  I  told  you  I  could  eat  nothing." 
"Well,  this  is  nothing,  it  is  so  small." 
You  look  again,  and  see  with  relief  that  it  is  a 
large  sole. 

' '  I  would  much  rather  that  you  took  it  away. ' ' 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   BED.  33 

"But,  dear " 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  no  appetite." 

1 '  Of  course  I  know  that  ;  but  liow  can  you  hope 
to  preserve  your  strength  if  you  eat  so  little  ?  You 
have  had  nothing  all  day. ' ' 

You  glance  at  her  face  to  see  if  she  is  in  earnest, 
for  you  can  remember  three  breakfasts,  four  lun- 
cheons, two  dinners,  and  sandwiches  between  ;  but 
evidently  she  is  not  jesting.     Then  you  yield. 

"  Oh,  well,  to  keep  my  health  up  I  may  just  put 
a  fork  into  it." 

"Do,  dear;  it  will  do  you  good,  though  you 
have  no  caring  for  it." 

Take  a  holiday  in  bed,  if  only  to  discover  what 
an  angel  )Tour  wife  is. 

There  is  only  one  thing  to  guard  against.  Never 
call  it  a  holiday.  Continue  not  to  feel  sure  what 
is  wrong  with  you,  and  to  talk  vaguely  of  getting 
up  presently.  Your  wife  will  suggest  calling  in 
the  doctor,  but  pooh-pooh  him.  Be  firm  on  that 
point.  The  chances  are  that  he  won't  understand 
your  case. 


LIFE  IN  A  COUNTRY 

MANSE. 


LIFE  IN  A  COUNTRY  MANSE. 


UP  here  among  the  heather  (or  nearly  so)  we 
are,  in  the  opinion  of  tourists,  a  mere  ham- 
let, though  to  ourselves  we  are  at  least  a  village. 
Englishmen  call  lis  a  "  clachan  " — though,  truth 
to  tell,  we  are  not  sure  what  that  is.  Just  as 
Gulliver  could  not  see  the  Liliputians  without 
stooping,  these  tourists  may  be  looking  for  the 
clachan  when  they  are  in  the  middle  of  it,  and 
knocking  at  one  of  its  doors  to  ask  how  far  they 
have  yet  to  go  till  they  reach  it.  To  be  honest, 
we  are  only  five  houses  in  a  row  (including  the 
smiddy),  with  a  Free  Church  Manse  and  a  few 
farms  here  and  there  on  the  hillsides. 

So  far  as  the  rest  of  the  world  is  concerned,  we 
are  blotted  out  with  the  first  fall  of  snow.  I  sup- 
pose tourists  scarcely  give  us  a  thought,  save  when 
they  are  here.  I  have  heard  them  admiring  our 
glen  in  August,  and  adding  : 

"  But  what  a  place  it  must  be  in  winter  !  " 


37 


38  LIFE   IN   A   COUNTRY  MANSE. 

To  this  their  friends  reply,  shivering  : 

"A  hard  life,  indeed  I" 

And  the  conversation  ends  with  the  comment  : 

"  Don't  call  it  life  ;  it  is  merely  existence." 
Well,  it  would  be  dull,  no  doubt,  for  tourists  up 

here  in  January,  say,  but  I  find  the  winter  a  pleas- 
ant change  from  summer.  I  am  the  minister, 
and  though  my  heart  sank  when  I  was  "called," 
I  rather  enjoy  the  life  now.  I  am  the  man  whom 
the  tourists  pity  most. 

"The  others  drawl  through  their  lives,"  these 
tourists  say,  "to  the  manner  born  ;  but  think  of  an 
educated  man  who  has  seen  life  spending  his  win- 
ters in  such  a  place  !  " 

"  He  can  have  no  society." 

"  Let  us  hope  the  poor  fellow  is  married." 

"Oh,  he  is  sure  to  be.  But  married  or  single,  I 
am  certain  I  would  go  mad  if  I  were  in  his 
shoes. ' ' 

Their  comparison  is  thrown  away.  I  am  strong 
and  hale.  I  enjoy  the  biting  air,  and  I  seldom 
carry  an  umbrella.  I  should  perhaps  go  mad  if  I 
were  in  the  Englishmen's  shoes,  glued  to  a  stool 
all  day,  and  feeling  my  road  home  through  fog  at 
night.      And  there  is  many  an  educated  man  who 


LIFE   IN   A    COUNTRY   MANSE.  39 

envies  me.  Did  not  three  times  as  many  proba- 
tioners apply  for  a  hearing  when  the  church  was 
vacant  as  could  possibly  be  heard  ? 

But  how  did  I  occupy  my  time  ?  the  English 
gentlemen  would  say,  if  they  had  not  forgotten  me. 
What  do  the  people  do  in  winter? 

No,  I  don't  lie  long  in  the  mornings  and  doze  on 
a  sofa  in  the  afternoon,  and  go  to  bed  at  9  o'clock. 
When  I  was  at  college,  where  there  is  so  much 
"  life,"  I  breakfasted  frequently  at  ten  ;  but  here, 
where  time  must  (they  say)  hang  heavy  on  my 
hands,  I  am  up  at  seven.  Though  I  am  not  a 
married  man,  no  one  has  said  openly  that  I  am 
insane.  Janet,  my  housekeeper  and  servant,  has 
my  breakfast  of  porridge  and  tea  and  ham  ready 
by  half-past  seven  sharp.  You  see  the  mornings 
are  keen,  and  so,  as  I  have  no  bed-room  fire  nor 
hot  water,  I  dress  much  more  quickly  than  I 
dressed  at  college.  Six  minutes  I  give  myself, 
then  Janet  and  I  have  prayers,  and  then  follows 
my  breakfast.  What  an  appetite  I  have  !  I  am 
amazed  to  recall  the  student  days,  when  I  "could 
not  look  at  porridge,"  and  thought  a  half-penny 
roll  sufficient  for  two  of  us. 

Dreary  pleasure,  you  say,  breakfasting  alone  in  a 


40  LIFE   IN   A   COUNTRY   MANSE. 

half-furnished  house,  with  the  snow  lying  some 
feet  deep  outside  and  still  monotonously  falling. 
Do  I  forget  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  between 
Monday  and  Saturday  ?  I  should  think  not.  Nor 
do  I  forget  Janet's  voice.  I  have  read  somewhere 
that  the  Scotch  are  a  very  taciturn  race,  but  Janet 
is  far  more  Scotch  than  the  haggis  that  is  passed 
around  at  some  London  dinners,  and  Janet  is  not  a 
silent  woman.  The  difficulty  with  some  servants 
is  to  get  them  to  answer  your  summons,  but  my 
difficulty  with  Janet  is  to  get  her  back  to  the 
kitchen.  Her  favorite  position  is  at  the  door, 
which  she  keeps  half  open.  One  of  her  feet  she 
twists  round  it,  and  there  she  stands,  half  out  of 
the  room  and  half  in  it.  She  has  a  good  deal  of 
gossip  to  tell  me  about  those  five  houses  that  lie 
low,  two  hundred  yards  from  the  manse,  and  it 
must  be  admitted  that  I  listen.  Why  not  ?  If  one 
is  interested  in  people  he  must  gossip  about  them. 
You,  in  London,  may  not  care  in  the  least  who 
your  next  door  neighbor  is,  but  you  gossip  about 
your  brothers  and  sisters  and  aunts.  Well,  my 
people  are  as  familiar  to  me  as  your  brothers  are  to 
you,  and,  therefore,  I  say,  "Ah,  indeed,"  when 
told  that  the  smith  is  busy  with  the  wheel  of  a 


LIFE   IN   A   COUNTRY   MANSE.  4 1 

certain  farmer's  cart,  and  "Dear  me,  is  that  so?" 
when  Janet  explains  that  William,  the  ploughman, 
has  got  Meggy,  his  wife,  to  cut  his  hair.  Meggy 
has  cut  my  own  hair.  She  puts  a  bowl  on  my 
head  and  clips  away  everything  that  it  does  not 
cover.  So  I  would  miss  Janet  if  she  were  gone, 
and  her  tongue  is  as  enlivening  as  a  strong  ticking 
clock.  No  doubt  there  are  times  when,  if  I  were 
not  a  minister,  I  might  fling  something  soft  at  her. 
She  shows  to  least  advantage  when  I  have  visitors, 
and  even  in  winter  I  have  a  man  to  dinner  now  and 
again.  Then  I  realize  that  Janet  does  not  know 
her  place.  While  we  are  dining  she  hovers  in  the 
vicinity.  If  she  is  not  pretending  to  put  the  room 
to  rights,  she  is  in  her  fortified  position  at  the 
door  ;  and  if  she  is  not  at  the  door  she  is  imme- 
diately behind  it.  Her  passion  is  to  help  in  the 
conversation.  As  she  brings  in  the  potatoes  she 
answers  the  last  remark  my  guest  addressed  to  me, 
and  if  I  am  too  quick  for  her  she  explains  away  my 
answer,  or  modifies  it,  or  signifies  her  approval  of 
it.  Then  I  try  to  be  dignified  and  to  show  Janet 
her  place.  If  I  catch  her  eye  I  frown,  but  such 
opportunities  are  rare,  for  it  is  the  guest  on  whom 
she  concentrates  herself.      She  even  tells  him,  in 


42  LIFE   IN  A  COUNTRY   MANSE. 

my  presence,  little  things  about  myself  which  I 
would  prefer  to  keep  to  myself.  The  impression 
conveyed  by  her  is  that  I  confide  everything  to 
her.  When  my  guest  remarks  that  I  am  becoming 
a  hardened  bachelor,  and  I  hint  that  it  is  because 
the  ladies  do  not  give  me  a  chance,  Janet  breaks 
in  with — 

"  Oh,  deed  it's  a  wonder  he  wasn't  married  long 
since,  but  the  one  he  wanted  wouldn't  have  hin^ 
and  the  ones  that  want  him  he  won't  take.  He's 
an  ill  man  to  please." 

"  Ah,  Janet,"  the  guest  may  say  (for  he  enjoys 
her  interference  more  than  I  do),  ' '  you  make  him 
so  comfortable  that  you  spoil  him." 

' '  Maybe, ' '  says  Janet,  ' '  but  it  took  me  years  to 
learn  how  to  manage  him." 

' '  Does  he  need  to  be  managed  ?  ' ' 

' '  I  never  knew  a  man  that  didna. ' ' 

Then  they  get  Janet  to  tell  them  all  my  little 
"tantrums"  (as  she  calls  them),  and  she  holds 
forth  on  my  habit  of  mislaying  my  hat  and  then 
blaming  her,  or  on  how  I  hate  rice  pudding,  or  on 
the  way  I  have  worn  the  carpet  by  walking  up  and 
down  the  floor  when  I  would  be  more  comfortable 
in  a  chair.     Now  and  again  I  have  wound  myself 


LIFE    IN    A    COUNTRY   MANSE.  43 

up  to  the  point  of  reproving  Janet  when  the  guest 
had  gone,  but  the  result  is  that  she  tells  her  select 
friends  how  "quick  in  the  temper"  I  am.  So 
Janet  must  remain  as  she  has  grown  and  it  is  grati- 
fying to  me  (though  don't  let  on)  to  know  that  she 
turns  up  her  nose  at  every  other  minister  who 
preaches  in  my  church.  Janet  is  always  afraid 
when  I  go  off  for  a  holiday  that  the  congregations 
in  the  big  towns  will  "snap  me  up."  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  feel  that  she  has  this  opinion  of  me,  though 
I  know  that  the  large  congregations  do  not  share  it. 
Who  are  my  winter  visitors  ?  The  chief  of  them 
is  the  doctor.  We  have  no  doctor,  of  course,  up 
here,  and  this  one  has  to  come  twelve  miles  to  us. 
He  is  rather  melancholy  when  we  send  for  him  ; 
but  he  wastes  no  time  in  coming,  though  he  may 
not  have  had  his  clothes  ofF  for  twenty-four  hours, 
and  is  well  aware  that  we  cannot  pay  big  fees. 
Several  times  he  has  had  to  remain  with  me  all 
night,  and  once  he  was  snowed  up  here  for  a  week. 
At  times,  too,  he  drives  so  far  on  his  way  to  us  and 
then  has  to  turn  back  because  the  gig  sticks  on  the 
heavy  roads.  He  is  only  a  doctor  in  a  small  coun- 
try town,  but  I  am  elated  when  I  see  him,  for  he 
can  tell  me   whether  the   Government    is    still    in 


44  LIFE   IN   A   COUNTRY   MANSE. 

power.  Then  I  have  the  school  inspector  once  a 
year.  The  school  inspector  is  always  threatening 
to  change  the  date  of  inspection  to  summer,  but 
he  takes  the  town  from  which  the  doctor  comes  in 
early  spring,  and  finds  it  convenient  to  come  from 
there  to  here.  Early  spring  is  often  winter  with 
us,  so  that  the  school  inspector  comes  when  there 
is  usually  snow  on  the  ground  or  threatening.  The 
school  is  a  mile  away  at  another  "clachan,"  but 
the  inspector  dines  with  me,  and  so  does  the  school- 
master. On  these  occasions  the  schoolmaster  is 
not  such  good  company  as  at  other  times,  for  he  is 
anxious  about  his  passes,  and  explains  (as  I  think) 
more  than  is  necessary  that  regular  attendance  is 
out  of  the  question  in  a  place  like  this.  The  in- 
spector's visit  is  the  time  of  my  great  annual  po- 
litical debate,  for  the  doctor  calls  politics  "fudge." 
The  inspector  and  I  are  on  different  sides,  however, 
and  we  go  at  each  other  hammer  and  tongs,  while 
the  schoolmaster  signs  to  me  with  his  foot  not  to 
anger  the  inspector. 

Of  course,  outsiders  will  look  incredulous  when 
I  assure  them  that  a  good  deal  of  time  is  passed  in 
preparing  my  sermons.  I  have  only  one  Sabbath 
service,  but  two  sermons,   the  one   beginning   as 


LIFE   IN   A   COUNTRY   MANSE.  45 

soon  as  the  other  is  finished.  In  such  a  little 
church,  you  will  say  they  must  be  easily  pleased  ; 
but  they  are  not.  Some  of  them  tramp  long  dis- 
tances to  church  in  weather  that  would  keep  you, 
reader,  in  the  house,  though  your  church  is  round 
the  corner  and  there  is  pavement  all  the  way  to  it. 
I  can  preach  old  sermons?  Indeed  I  cannot. 
Many  of  my  hearers  adjourn  to  one  of  the  five 
houses  when  the  service  is  over,  and  there  I  am 
picked  pretty  clean.  They  would  detect  an  old 
sermon  at  once,  and  resent  it.  I  do  not  "talk" 
to  them  from  the  pulpit.  I  write  my  sermons  in 
the  manse,  and  though  I  use  ' '  paper, ' '  the  less  I 
use  it  the  better  they  are  pleased. 

The  visits  of  the  doctor  are  pleasant  to  me  in  one 
sense,  but  painful  in  others,  for  I  need  not  say  that 
when  he  is  called  I  am  required  too.  To  wade 
through  miles  of  snow  is  no  great  hardship  to 
those  who  are  accustomed  to  it  ;  but  the  heavy 
heart  comes  when  one  of  my  people  is  seriously  ill. 
Up  here  we  have  few  slight  illnesses.  The  doctor 
cannot  be  summoned  to  attend  them,  and  we 
usually  ' '  fight  away  ' '  until  the  malady  has  a 
heavy  hold.  Then  the  doctor  comes,  and  though 
we  are  so  scattered,  his  judgment  is  soon  known  all 


46  LIFE    IN   A    COUNTRY   MANSE. 

through  the  glens.  When  the  tourists  come  back 
in  summer  they  will  not  see  all  the  ' '  natives  ' '  of 
the  year  before. 

It  is  said  by  those  who  know  nothing  of  our 
lives  that  we  have  no  social  events  worth  speaking 
of,  and  no  amusements.  This  is  what  ignorance 
brings  outsiders  to.  I  had  a  marriage  last  week 
that  was  probably  more  exciting  than  many  of  your 
grand  affairs  in  London.  And  as  for  amusements, 
you  should  see  us  gathered  together  in  the  smiddy, 
and  sometimes  in  the  school-house.  But  I  must 
break  off  here  for  the  reason  that  I  have  used  up 
all  my  spare  sermon  paper — a  serious  matter.  I 
shall  send  the  editor  something  about  our  social 
gatherings  presently,  for  he  says  he  wants  it.  Janet, 
I  may  add,  has  discovered  that  this  is  not  a  sermon 
and  is  very  curious  about  it. 


LIFE  IN  A  COUNTRY 

MANSE. 


A  WEDDING  IN  A  SMIDDY. 


LIFE  IN  A  COUNTRY  MANSE 


A  WEDDING  IN  A  SMIDDY. 


T  PROMISED  to  take  the  world  at  large  into  my 
-■-  confidence  on  the  subject  of  our  wedding  at 
the  smiddy.  You  in  London,  no  doubt,  dress 
more  gorgeously  for  marriages  than  we  do — though 
we  can  present  a  fine  show  of  color — and  you  do 
not  make  your  own  wedding-cake,  as  Lizzie  did. 
But  what  is  your  excitement  to  ours  ?  I  suppose 
you  have  many  scores  of  marriages  for  our  one,  but 
you  only  know  of  those  from  the  newspapers.  "At 
so-and-so,  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Such-a-one,  John  to 
Elizabeth,  eldest  daughter  of  Thomas."  That  is 
all  you  know  of  the  couple  who  were  married  round 
the  corner,  and  therefore,  I  say,  a  hundred  such 
weddings  are  less  eventful  in  your  community  than 
one  wedding  in  ours. 

Lizzie  is  off  to  Southampton  with  her  husband. 
As  the  carriage  drove  off  behind  two  horses  that 
could  with  difficulty  pull  it  through  the  snow,  Janet 
suddenly  appeared  at  my  elbow  and  remarked  : 

4  ™ 


50  LIFE  IN  A  COUNTRY  MANSE. 

"Well,  well,  she  has  him  now,  and  may  she 
have  her  joy  of  him." 

"Ah,  Janet,"  I  said,  "you  see  you  were  wrong. 
You  said  he  would  never  come  for  her." 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Janet.  "  I  just  said  Lizzie 
made  too  sure  about  him,  seeing  as  he  was  at  the 
other  side  of  the  world.  These  sailors  are  scarce 
to  be  trusted." 

"  But  you  see  this  one  has  turned  up  a  trump." 

' '  That  remains  to  be  seen.  Anybody  that's  single 
can  marry  a  woman,  but  it's  no  so  easy  to  keep  her 
comfortable. ' ' 

I  suppose  Janet  is  really  glad  that  the  sailor  did 
turn  up  and  claim  Lizzie,  but  she  is  annoyed  in  a 
way  too.  The  fact  is  that  Janet  was  skeptical 
about  the  sailor.  I  never  saw  Janet  reading  any- 
thing but  the  Free  Church  Monthly,  yet  she  must 
have  obtained  her  wide  knowledge  of  sailors  from 
books.  She  considers  them  very  bad  characters, 
but  is  too  shrewd  to  give  her  reasons. 

"  We  all  ken  what  sailors  are,"  is  her  dark  way 
of  denouncing  those  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in 
ships,  and  then  she  shakes  her  head  and  purses  up 
her  mouth  as  if  she  could  tell  things  about  sailors 
that  would  make  our  hair  rise. 


LIFE   IN  A  COUNTRY  MANSE.  5 1 

I  think  it  was  in  Glasgow  that  Lizzie  met  the 
sailor — three  years  ago.  She  had  gone  there  to  be 
a  servant,  but  the  size  of  the  place  (according  to 
her  father)  frightened  her,  and  in  a  few  months  she 
was  back  at  the  clachan.  We  were  all  quite  ex- 
cited to  see  her  again  in  the  church,  and  the  general 
impression  was  that  Glasgow  had  ' '  made  her  a  deal 
more  lady-like."  In  Janet's  opinion  she  was  just 
a  little  too  lady-like  to  be  natural. 

In  a  week's  time  there  was  a  wild  rumor  through 
the  glen  that  Lizzie  was  to  be  married. 

' '  Not  she, ' '  said  Janet,  uneasily. 

Soon,  however,  Janet  had  to  admit  that  there  was 
truth  in  the  story,  for  "the  way  Lizzie  wandered 
up  the  road  looking  for  the  post  showed  she  had  a 
man  on  her  mind." 

Lizzie,  I  think,  wanted  to  keep  her  wonderful 
secret  to  herself,  but  that  could  not  be  done. 

' '  I  canna  sleep  at  nights  for  wondering  who 
Lizzie  is  to  get,"  Janet  admitted  to  me.  So  in 
order  to  preserve  her  health  Janet  studied  the  affair, 
reflected  on  the  kind  of  people  Lizzie  was  likely  to 
meet  in  Glasgow,  asked  Lizzie  to  the  manse  to  tea 
(with  no  result),  and  then  asked  Lizzie's  mother 
(victory).     Lizzie  was  to  be  married  to  a  sailor. 


52  LIFE  IN  A  COUNTRY  MANSE. 


<<  T', 


I'm  cheated,"  said  Janet,    "if  she  ever  sets 
eyes  on  him  again.     Oh,  we  all  ken  what  sailors 


are." 


You  must  not  think  Janet  too  spiteful.  Marriages 
were  always  too  much  for  her,  but  after  the  wed- 
ding is  over  she  becomes  good-natured  again.  She 
is  a  strange  mixture,  and,  I  rather  think,  very 
romantic,  despite  her  cynical  talk. 

Well,  I  confess  now,  that  for  a  time  I  was  some- 
what afraid  of  Lizzie's  sailor  myself.  His  letters 
became  few  in  number,  and  often  I  saw  Lizzie  with 
red  eyes  after  the  post  had  passed.  She  had  too 
much  work  to  do  to  allow  her  to  mope,  but  she 
became  unhappy  and  showed  a  want  of  spirit  that 
alarmed  her  father,  who  liked  to  shout  at  his 
relatives  and  have  them  shout  back  at  him. 

"  I  wish  she  had  never  set  eyes  on  that  sailor," 
he  said  to  me  one  day  when  Lizzie  was  troubling 
him. 

"She  could  have  had  William  Simpson,"  her 
mother  said  to  Janet. 

"I  question  that,"  said  Janet,  in  repeating  the 
remark  to  me. 

But  though  all  the  clachan  shook  its  head  at  the 
sailor,  and  repeated  Janet's  aphorism  about  sailors 


LIFE  IN  A   COUNTRY  MANSE.  53 

as  a  class,  Lizzie  refused  to  believe  her  lover  un- 
true. 

' '  The  only  way  to  get  her  to  flare  up  at  me, ' ' 
her  father  said,  "is  to  say  a  word  against  her  lad. 
She  will  not  stand  that. ' ' 

And,  after  all,  we  were  wrong  and  Lizzie  was 
right.  In  the  beginning  of  the  winter  Janet  walked 
into  my  study  and  parlor  (she  never  knocks)  and  said: 

"He's  come  !  " 

"Who?"   I  asked. 

"The  sailor.  Lizzie's  sailor.  It's  a  perfect 
disgrace. ' ' 

"Hoots,  Janet,  it's  the  very  reverse.  I'm  de- 
lighted ;  and  so,  I  suppose,  are  you  in  your  heart." 

"I'm  not  grudging  her  the  man  if  she  wants 
him,"  said  Janet,  flinging  up  her  head,  "but  the 
disgrace  is  in  the  public  way  he  marched  past  me 
with  his  arm  round  her.     It  affronted  me." 

Janet  gave  me  the  details.      She  had  been  to  a 
farm    for   the    milk   and   passed  Lizzie,    who  had  ' 
wandered  out  to  meet  the  post  as  usual. 

"  I've  no  letter  for  ye,  Lizzie,"  the  post  said,  and 
Lizzie  sighed. 

"No,  my  lass,"  the  post  continued,  "but  I've 
something  better." 


54  WFE  IN  A  COUNTRY  MANSE. 

Lizzie  was  wondering  what  it  could  be,  when  a 
man  jumped  out  from  behind  a  hedge,  at  the  sight 
of  whom  Lizzie  screamed  with  joy.  It  was  her 
sailor. 

1 '  I  would  never  have  let  on  I  was  so  fond  of 
him, ' '  said  Janet. 

"  But  did  he  not  seem  fond  of  her?"  I  asked. 

4 '  That  was  the  disgrace, ' '  said  Janet.  ' '  He 
marched  off  to  her  father's  house  with  his  arm 
around  her  ;  yes,  passed  me  and  a  wheen  other  folk, 
and  looked  as  if  he  neither  kent  nor  cared  how 
public  he  was  making  himself.  She  did  not  care 
either.  " 

I  addressed  some  remarks  to  Janet  on  the  subject 
of  meddling  with  other  people's  affairs,  pointing  out 
that  she  was  now  half  an  hour  late  with  my  tea  ; 
but  I,  too,  was  interested  to  see  the  sailor.  I  shall 
never  forget  what  a  change  had  come  over  Lizzie 
when  I  saw  her  next.  The  life  was  back  in  her 
face,  she  bustled  about  the  house  as  busy  as  a  bee, 
and  her  walk  was  springy. 

"This  is  him,"  she  said  to  me,  and  then  the 
sailor  came  forward  and  grinned.  He  was  usually 
grinning  when  I  saw  him,  but  he  had  an  honest, 
open  face,  if  a  very  youthful  one. 


UFK  IN  A   COUNTRY  MANSE.  55 

The  sailor  stayed  on  at  the  claehan  till  the  mar- 
riage, and  continued  to  scandalize  Janet  by  strut- 
ting ' '  past  the  very  manse  gate  "  with  his  arm  round 
the  happy  Lizzie. 

11  He  has  no  notion  of  the  solemnity  of  marriage," 
Janet  informed  me,  "or  he  would  look  less  jolly. 
I  would  not  like  a  man  that  joked  about  his  mar- 
riage. ' ' 

The  sailor  undoubtedly  did  joke.  He  seemed  to 
look  on  the  coming  event  as  the  most  comical 
affair  in  the  world's  history,  and  when  he  spoke  of 
it  he  slapped  his  knees  and  roared.  But  there  was 
daily  fresh  evidence  that  he  was  devoted  to  Lizzie. 

The  wedding  took  place  in  the  smiddy,  because 
it  is  a  big  place,  and  all  the  glen  was  invited. 
Lizzie  would  have  had  the  company  comparatively 
select,  but  the  sailor  asked  every  one  to  come  whom 
he  fell  in  with,  and  he  had  few  refusals.  He  was 
wonderfully  "flush"  of  money,  too,  and  had  not 
Lizzie  taken  control  of  it,  would  have  given  it  all 
away  before  the  marriage  took  place. 

"It's  a  mercy  Lizzie  kens  the  worth  of  a  baw- 
bee," her  mother  said,  "for  he  would  scatter  his 
siller  among  the  very  bairns  as  if  it  was  corn  and  he 
was  feeding  hens." 


5^  UFE   IN   A   COUNTRY   MANSE. 

All  the  chairs  in  the  five  houses  were  not  suffi- 
cient to  seat  the  guests,  but  the  smith  is  a  handy 
man,  and  he  made  forms  by  crossing  planks  on 
tubs.  The  smiddy  was  an  amazing  sight,  lit  up 
with  two  big  lamps,  and  the  bride,  let  me  inform 
those  who  tend  to  scoff,  was  dressed  in  white.  As 
for  the  sailor,  we  have  perhaps  never  had  so  showily 
dressed  a  gentleman  in  our  parts.  For  this  occa- 
sion he  discarded  his  seafaring  "rig  out"  (as  he 
called  it),  and  appeared  resplendent  in  a  black  frock 
coat  (tight  at  the  neck),  a  light  blue  waistcoat 
(richly  ornamented),  and  gray  trousers  with  a  green 
stripe.  His  boots  were  new  and  so  genteel  that  as 
the  evening  wore  on  he  had  to  kick  them  off  and 
dance  in  his  stocking  soles. 

Janet  tells  me  that  Lizzie  had  gone  through  the 
ceremony  in  private  with  her  sailor  a  number  of 
times,  so  that  he  might  make  no  mistake.  The 
smith,  asked  to  take  my  place  at  these  rehearsals, 
declined  on  the  ground  that  he  forgot  how  the  knot 
was  tied  :  but  his  wife  had  a  better  memory,  and  I 
understand  that  she  even  mimicked  me — for  which 
I  must  take  her  to  task  one  of  these  days. 

However,  despite  all  these  precautions,  the  sailor 
was  a  little  demonstrative  during  the  ceremony, 


LIFE    IN   A   COUNTRY    MANSE.  57 

and  slipped  his  arm  around  the  bride  "  to  steady 
her. ' '  Janet  wonders  that  Lizzie  did  not  fling  his 
arm  from  her,  but  Lizzie  was  too  nervous  now  to 
know  what  her  swain  was  about. 

Then  came  the  supper  and  the  songs  and  the 
speeches.  The  tourists  who  picture  us  shivering, 
silent  and  depressed  all  through  the  winter  should 
have  been  in  the  smiddy  that  night. 

I  proposed  the  health  of  the  young  couple,  and 
when  I  called  Lizzie  by  her  new  name,  "Mrs. 
Fairweather,"  the  sailor  flung  back  his  head  and 
roared  with  glee  till  he  choked,  and  Lizzie's  first 
duty  as  a  wife  was  to  hit  him  hard  between  the 
shoulder  blades.  When  he  was  sufficiently  com- 
posed to  reply,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  grinned 
round  the  room. 

1 '  Mrs.  Fairweather, ' '  he  cried  in  an  ecstacy  of 
delight,  and  again  choked. 

The  smith  induced  him  to  make  another  attempt, 
and  this  time  he  got  as  far  as  ' '  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, me   and    my   wife "    when    the    speech 

ended  prematurely  in  resounding  chuckles.  The 
last  we  saw  of  him,  when  the  carriage  drove  away, 
he  was  still  grinning ;  but  that,  as  he  explained, 


58  LIFE   IN   A   COUNTRY  MANSE. 

was  because  ' '  he  had  got  Lizzie  at  last. "      "  You'll 
be  a  good  husband  to  her,  I  hope,"  I  said. 

' '  Will  I  not, ' '  he  cried,  and  his  arm  went  round 
his  wife  again. 


A  POWERFUL  DRUG. 


A  POWERFUL  DRUG. 


(NO  HOUSEHOLD  SHOULD  BE  WITHOUT  IT.) 


ALL  respectable  chemists,  Montgomery  assures 
-  me,  keep  the  cio-root.  That  is  the  name 
of  the  drug,  and  Montgomery  is  the  man  who 
ought  to  write  its  testimonials.  This  is  a 
testimonial  to  the  efficacy  of  the  cio-root,  and  I 
write  it  the  more  willingly,  because,  until  the  case 
of  Montgomery  cropped  up,  I  had  no  faith  in  patent 
medicines.  Seeing,  however,  is,  they  say,  believ- 
ing ;  and  I  have  seen  what  the  cio-root  did  for 
Montgomery.  I  can  well  believe  now  that  it  can 
do  anything,  from  removing  grease-spots  to  making 
your  child  cry  out  in  the  night. 

Montgomery,  who  was  married  years  ago,  is 
subject  to  headaches,  and  formerly  his  only  way  of 
treating  them  was  to  lie  in  bed  and  read  a  light 
novel.  By  the  time  the  novel  was  finished,  so,  as 
a  rule,  was  the  headache.  This  treatment  rather 
interfered  with  his  work,  however,  and  he  tried 
various  medicines   which  were  guaranteed  to  cure 

61 


62  A  POWERFUL  DRUG. 

rapidly.  None  of  them  had  the  least  result,  until 
one  day,  some  two  months  ago,  good  fortune  made 
him  run  against  an  old  friend  in  Chambers  street. 
Montgomery  having  a  headache,  mentioned  it,  and 
his  friend  asked  him  if  he  had  tried  the  cio-root. 
The  name  even  was  unfamiliar  to  Montgomery, 
but  his  friend  spoke  so  enthusiastically  of  it  that 
the  headachy  man  took  a  note  of  it.  He  was  told 
that  it  had  never  been  known  to  fail,  and  the 
particular  merit  of  it  was  that  it  drove  the  headache 
away  in  five  minutes.  The  proper  dose  to  take  was 
half  an  inch  of  the  root,  which  was  to  be  sucked 
and  eventually  swallowed.  Montgomery  tried 
several  chemists  in  vain,  for  they  had  not  heard  of 
it,  but  at  last  he  got  it  on  George  IV.  Bridge.  He 
had  so  often  carried  home  in  triumph  a  ' '  certain 
cure,"  which  was  subsequently  flung  out  at  the 
window  in  disgust,  that  his  wife  shook  her  head  at 
the  cio-root,  and  advised  him  not  to  be  too  hopeful. 
However,  the  cio-root  surpassed  the  fondest  expec- 
tations. It  completely  cured  Montgomery  in  less 
than  the  five  minutes.  Several  times  he  tried  it, 
and  always  with  the  same  triumphant  result. 
Having  at  last  got  a  drug  to  make  an  idol  of,  it  is 
not  perhaps  to  be  wondered  at  that  Montgomery 


A  POWERFUL  DRUG.  63 

was  full  of  gratitude.  He  kept  a  three  pound  tin 
of  the  cio-root  on  his  library-table,  and  the  moment 
he  felt  a  headache  coming  on  he  said,  "  Excuse  me 
for  one  moment,"  and  bit  off  half  an  inch  of  cio- 
root. 

The  headaches  never  had  a  chance.  It  was, 
therefore,  natural,  though  none  the  less  annoying, 
that  his  one  topic  of  conversation  should  become 
the  properties  of  this  remarkable  drug.  You  would 
drop  in  on  him,  glowing  over  the  prospect  of  a 
delightful  two  hours'  wrangle  over  the  crofter 
question,  but  he  pushed  the  subject  away  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand,  and  begged  to  introduce  to  our 
notice  the  cio-root.  Sitting  there  smoking,  his 
somewhat  dull  countenance  would  suddenly  light 
up  as  his  eyes  came  to  rest  on  the  three-pound  tin. 
He  was  always  advising  us  to  try  the  cio-root,  and 
when  we  said  we  did  not  have  a  headache  he  got 
sulky.  The  first  thing  he  asked  us  when  we  met 
was  whether  we  had  a  headache,  and  often  he 
clipped  off  an  inch  or  two  of  the  cio-root  and  gave 
it  us  in  a  piece  of  paper,  so  that  a  headache  might 
not  take  us  unawares.  I  believe  he  rather  enjoyed 
waking  with  a  headache,  for  he  knew  that  it  would 
not  have  a  chance.      If  his  wife  had  been  a  jealous 


64  A  POWERFUL  DRUG. 

woman,    she  would   not  have  liked   the  way  he 
talked  of  the  cio-root. 

Some  of  us  did  try  the  drug,  either  to  please 
him  or  because  we  were  really  curious  about  it. 
Whatever  the  reason,  none  of  us,  I  think,  were 
prejudiced.  We  tested  it  on  its  merits,  and  came 
unanimously  to  the  conclusion  that  they  were  neg- 
ative. The  cio-root  did  us  no  harm.  The  taste 
was  what  one  may  imagine  to  be  the  taste  of  the 
root  of  any  rotten  tree  dipped  in  tar,  which  was 
subsequently  allowed  to  dry.  As  we  were  all  of 
one  mind  on  the  subject,  we  insisted  with  Mont- 
gomery that  the  cio-root  was  a  fraud.  Frequently 
we  had  such  altercations  with  him  on  the  subject 
that  we  parted  in  sneers,  and  ultimately  we  said 
that  it  would  be  best  not  to  goad  him  too  far  ;  so 
we  arranged  merely  to  chaff  him  about  his  faith  in 
the  root,  and  never  went  farther  than  insisting,  in 
a  pleasant  way,  that  he  was  cured,  not  by  the  cio- 
root,  but  by  his  believing  in  it.  Montgomery 
rejected  this  theory  with  indignation,  but  we  stuck 
to  it  and  never  doubted  it.  Events,  nevertheless, 
will  show  you  that  Montgomery  was  right  and  that 
we  were  wrong. 

The  triumph  of  cio-root  came  as  recently  as  yes- 


A   POWERFUL  DRUG.  65 

terday.  Montgomery,  his  wife,  and  myself,  had 
arranged  to  go  into  Glasgow  for  the  day.  I  called 
for  them  in  the  forenoon  and  had  to  wait,  as  Mont- 
gomery had  gone  along  to  the  office  to  see  if  there 
were  any  letters.  He  arrived  soon  after  me,  saying 
that  he  had  a  headache,  but  saying  it  in  a  cheery 
way,  for  he  knew  that  the  root  was  in  the  next 
room.  He  disappeared  into  the  library  to  nibble 
half  an  inch  of  the  cio-root,  and  shortly  afterwards 
we  set  off.  The  headache  had  been  dispelled  as 
usual.  In  the  train  he  and  I  had  another  argument 
about  the  one  great  drug,  and  he  ridiculed  my 
notion  about  its  being  faith  that  drove  his  headache 
away.  I  may  hurry  over  the  next  two  hours,  up  to 
the  time  when  we  wandered  into  Buchanan  street. 
There  Montgomery  met  a  friend,  to  whom  he  intro- 
duced me.  The  gentleman  was  in  a  hurry,  so  we 
only  spoke  for  a  moment,  but  after  he  had  left  us 
he  turned  back. 

1 '  Montgomery, ' '  he  said,  ' '  do  you  remember  that 
day  I  met  you  in  Chambers  street,  Edinburgh?" 

' 1 1  have  good  reason  for  remembering  the  occa- 
sion," said  Montgomery,  meaning  to  begin  the 
story  of  his  wonderful  cure  ;  but  his  friend  who 
had  to  catch  a  'bus,  cut  him  short. 


66  A   POWERFUL   DRUG. 


(< 


I  told  you  at  that  time, ' '  lie  said,  ' '  about  a 
new  drug  called  the  cio-root,  which  had  a  great 
reputation  for  curing  headaches. ' ' 

1 '  Yes, ' '  said  Montgomery  ;  "  I  always  wanted  to 
thank  you ' ' 

His  friend,  however,  broke  in  again — 

"  I  have  been  troubled  in  my  mind  since  then," 
he  said,  "  because  I  was  told  afterwards  that  I  had 
made  a  mistake  about  the  proper  dose.  If  you  try 
the  cio-root,  don't  take  half  an  inch,  as  I  recom- 
mended, but  quarter  of  au  inch.  Don't  forget.  It 
is  of  vital  importance." 

Then  he  jumped  into  his  'bus,  but  I  called  after 
him,  "What  would  be  the  effect  of  half  an  inch  ?  " 

"Certain  death  !"  he  shouted  back,  and  was 
gone.  I  turned  to  look  at  Montgomery  and  his 
wife.  She  let  her  umbrella  fall  and  he  had  turned 
white.  ' '  Of  course,  there  is  nothing  to  be  alarmed 
about, ' '  I  said,  in  a  reassuring  way.  ' '  Montgomery 
has  taken  half  an  inch  scores  of  times  ;  you  say  it 
always  cured  you." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Montgomery  answered;  but  his 
voice  sounded  hollow. 

Up  to  this  point  the  snow  had  kept  off,  but  now 
it  began  to  fall  in  a  soaking  drizzle.     If  you  are 


A  POWERFUL  DRUG.  67 

superstitious  you  cau  take  this  as  an  omen.  For 
the  rest  of  the  day,  certainly,  we  had  a  miserable 
time  of  it.  I  had  to  do  all  the  talking,  and  while 
I  laughed  and  jested,  I  noticed  that  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery was  looking  anxiously  from  time  to  time  at 
her  husband.  She  was  afraid  to  ask  him  if  he  felt 
unwell,  and  he  kept  up,  not  wanting  to  alarm  her. 
But  he  walked  like  a  man  who  knew  that  he  had 
come  to  his  last  page.  At  my  suggestion  we  went 
to  the  Enoch's  Station  Hotel  to  have  dinner.  I  had 
dinner,  Mrs.  Montgomery  pretended  to  have  dinner, 
but  Montgomery  himself  did  not  even  make  the 
pretense.  He  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  and 
his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  At  last  he  said  with 
a  groan  that  he  was  feeling  very  ill.  He  looked  so 
doleful  that  his  wife  began  to  cry. 

Montgomery  admitted  that  he  blamed  the  cio- 
root  for  his  sufferings.  He  had  taken  an  overdose 
of  it,  he  said,  tragically,  and  must  abide  the  con- 
sequences. I  could  have  shaken  him,  for  reasoning 
was  quite  flung  away  on  him.  Of  course,  I  re- 
peated what  I  had  said  previously  about  an  overdose 
having  done  him  no  harm  before,  but  he  only 
shook  his  head  sadly.  I  said  that  his  behavior 
now  proved  my  contention  that  he  only  believed  in 


68  A  POWERFUL  DRUG. 

the  cio-root  because  he  was  told  that  it  had  wonder- 
ful properties  ;  otherwise  he  would  have  laughed  at 
what  his  friend  had  just  told  him.  Undoubtedly, 
I  said,  his  sufferings  to-day  were  purely  imaginary. 
Montgomery  did  not  have  sufficient  spirits  to  argue 
with  me,  but  he  murmured  in  a  die-away  voice 
that  he  had  felt  strange  symptoms  ever  since  we  set 
out  from  Edinburgh.  Now,  this  was  as  absurd  as 
anything  in  Euclid,  for  he  had  been  boasting  of  the 
wonderful  cure  the  drug  had  effected  again  most  of 
the  way  between  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow.  He 
insisted  that  he  had  a  splitting  headache,  and  that 
he  was  very  sick.  In  the  end,  as  his  wife  was  now 
in  a  frenzy,  I  sent  out  for  a  doctor.  The  doctor 
came,  said  ' '  yes ' '  and  ' '  quite  so  "  to  himself,  and 
pronounced  Montgomery  feverish.  That  he  was 
feverish  by  this  time,  I  do  not  question.  He  had 
worked  himself  into  a  fever.  There  was  some  talk 
of  putting  him  to  bed  in  the  hotel,  but  he  insisted 
on  going  home.  Though  he  did  not  put  it  so 
plainly,  he  gave  us  to  understand  that  he  wanted 
to  die  in  his  own  bed. 

Never  was  there  a  more  miserable  trio  than  we 
in  a  railway  carriage.  We  got  a  compartment  to 
ourselves,  for  though  several  passengers  opened  the 


A   POWERFUL  DRUG.  69 

door  to  come  in,  they  shrank  back  as  soon  as  they 
saw  Montgomery's  ghastly  face.  He  lay  in  a  corner 
of  the  carriage,  with  his  head  done  up  in  flannel, 
procured  at  the  hotel.  He  had  the  rugs  and  my 
great  coat  over  his  legs,  but  he  shivered  despite 
them,  and  when  he  spoke  at  all,  except  to  say  that 
he  was  feeling  worse  every  minute,  it  was  to  talk 
of  men  cut  off  in  their  prime  and  widows  left  de- 
stitute. At  Mrs.  Montgomery's  wish,  I  telegraphed 
from  a  station  at  which  the  train  stopped  to  the 
family  doctor  in  Edinburgh,  asking  him  to  meet  us 
at  the  house.  He  did  so  ;  indeed,  he  was  on  the 
steps  to  help  Montgomery  up  them.  We  took  an 
arm  of  the  invalid  apiece,  and  dragged  him  into 
the  library. 

It  was  a  fortunate  thing  that  we  went  into  the 
library,  for  the  first  thing  Montgomery  saw  on  the 
table  was  the  half  inch  of  cio-root  which  he  thought 
had  killed  him.      He  had  forgotten  to  take  it. 

In  ten  minutes  he  was  all  right.  Just  as  we  were 
sitting  down  to  supper,  we  heard  a  cat  squalling 
outside.  Montgomery  flung  a  three-pound  tin  of 
the  cio-root  at  it. 


EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN 
DOCTOR. 


EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN 
DOCTOR. 


STATISTICS  showing  the  number  of  persons 
who  yearly  meet  their  death  in  our  great  cities 
by  the  fall  of  telegraph  wires  are  published 
from  time  to  time.  As  our  cities  grow,  and  the 
need  of  telegraphic  communication  is  more  gener- 
ally felt,  this  danger  will  become  even  more  con- 
spicuous. Persons  who  value  their  lives  are  earnestly 
advised  not  to  walk  under  telegraph  wires. 

Is  it  generally  realized  that  every  day  at  least  one 
fatal  accident  occurs  in  our  streets  ?  So  many  of 
these  take  place  at  crossings  that  we  would  strongly 
urge  the  public  never  to  venture  across  a  busy 
street  until  all  the  vehicles  have  passed. 

We  find  prevalent  among  our  readers  an  impres- 
sion that  country  life  is  comparatively  safe.  This 
mistake  has  cost  Great  Britain  many  lives  The 
country  is  so  full  of  hidden  dangers  that  one  may 
be  said  to  risk  his  health  every  time  he  ventures 
into  it. 

73 


74  EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN   DOCTOR. 

We  feel  it  our  duty  to  remind  holiday-makers 
that  when  in  the  country  in  the  open  air,  they 
should  never  sit  down.  Many  a  man,  aye,  and 
woman  too,  has  been  done  to  death  by  neglecting 
this  simple  precaution.  The  recklessness  of  the 
public,  indeed,  in  such  matters  is  incomprehen- 
sible. The  day  is  hot,  they  see  an  inviting  grassy 
bank,  and  down  they  sit.  Need  we  repeat  that 
despite  the  sun  (which  is  ever  treacherous)  they 
should  continue  walking  at  a  smart  pace?  Yes, 
bitter  experience  has  taught  us  that  we  must  repeat 
such  warnings. 

When  walking  in  the  country  holiday-makers 
should  avoid  over-heating  themselves.  Nothing  is 
so  conducive  to  disease.  We  have  no  hesitation  in 
saying  that  nine-tenths  of  the  colds  that  prove  fatal 
are  caught  through  neglect  of  this  simple  rule. 

Beware  of  walking  on  grass.  Though  it  may  be 
dry  to  the  touch,  damp  is  ever  present,  and  cold 
caught  in  this  way  is  always  difficult  to  cure. 

Avoid  high  roads  in  the  country.  They  are,  for 
the  most  part,  unsheltered,  and  on  hot  days  the  sun 
beats  upon  them  unmercifully.  The  perspiration 
that  ensues  is  the  beginning  of  many  a  troublesome 
illness. 


EVERY    MAN   HIS   OWN    DOCTOR.  75 

Country  lanes  are  stuffy  and  unhealthy,  owing 
to  the  sun  not  getting  free  ingress  into  them.  They 
should,  therefore,  be  avoided  by  all  who  value  their 
health. 

In  a  magazine  we  observe  an  article  extolling  the 
pleasures  of  walking  in  a  wood.  That  walking  in 
a  wood  may  be  pleasant  we  do  not  deny,  but  for 
our  own  part  we  avoid  woods.  More  draughty 
places  could  not  well  be  imagined  and  many  a 
person  who  has  walked  in  a  wood  has  had  cause  to 
repent  it  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

It  is  every  doctor's  experience  that  there  is  a 
large  public  which  breaks  down  in  health  simply 
because  it  does  not  take  sufficient  exercise  in  the 
open  air.  Once  more  we  would  remind  our  readers 
that  every  man,  woman  or  child  who  does  not 
spend  at  least  two  hours  daily  in  the  open  air  is 
slowly  committing  suicide. 

How  pitiful  it  is  to  hear  a  business  man  say,  as 
business  men  so  often  say,  "  Really  I  cannot  take 
a  holiday  this  summer  ;  my  business  ties  me  so 
to  my  desk,  and,  besides,  I  am  feeling  quite 
well.  No,  I  shall  send  my  wife  and  children  to 
the  seaside,  and  content  myself  with  a  Saturday- 
to-Monday  now  and  again."     We  solemnly  warn 


76  EVERY  MAN   HIS  OWN   DOCTOR. 

all  such  foolish  persons  that  they  are  digging  their 
own  graves.  Change  is  absolutely  essential  to 
health. 

Asked  the  other  day  why  coughs  were  so  preva- 
lent in  the  autumn,  we  replied  without  hesitation, 
"  Because  during  the  past  month  or  two  so  many 
persons  have  changed  their  beds. ' '  City  people 
rush  to  the  seaside  in  their  thousands,  and  here  is 
the  result.  A  change  of  beds  is  dangerous  to  all, 
but  perhaps  chiefly  to  persons  of  middle  age.  We 
have  so  often  warned  the  public  of  this  that  we  can 
only  add  now,  "  If  they  continue  to  disregard  our 
warning,  their  blood  be  on  their  own  heads. ' '  This 
we  say  not  in  anger,  but  in  sorrow. 

A  case  has  come  to  our  knowledge  of  a  penny 
causing  death.  It  had  passed  through  the  hands 
of  a  person  suffering  from  infectious  fever  into 
those  of  a  child,  who  got  it  as  change  from  a  shop. 
The  child  took  the  fever  and  died  in  about  a  fort- 
night. We  would  not  have  mentioned  this  case 
had  we  not  known  it  to  be  but  an  instance  of  what 
is  happening  daily.  Infection  is  frequently  spread 
by  money,  and  we  would  strongly  urge  no  one  to 
take  change  (especially  coppers),  from  another 
without  seeing  it  first  dipped  in  warm  water.    Who 


EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN   DOCTOR.  77 

can  tell  where  the  penny  he  gets  in  change  from 
the  newspaper-boy  has  come  from  ? 

If  ladies,  who  are  ever  purchasing  new  clothes, 
were  aware  that  disease  often  lurks  in  these,  they 
would  be  less  anxious  to  enter  dressmakers'  shops. 
The  saleswoman  who  u  fits  "  them  may  come  daily 
from  a  home  where  her  sister  lies  sick  of  a  fever, 
or  the  dress  may  have  been  made  in  some  East  End 
den,  where  infection  is  rampant.  Cases  of  the  kind 
frequently  come  to  our  knowledge,  and  we  would 
warn  the  public  against  this  danger  that  is  ever 
present  among  us. 

Must  we  again  enter  a  protest  against  insufficient 
clothing  ?  We  never  take  a  walk  along  any  of 
our  fashionable  thoroughfares  without  seeing  scores 
of  persons,  especially  ladies,  insufficiently  clad. 
The  same  spectacle,  alas  !  may  be  witnessed  in  the 
East  End,  but  for  a  different  reason.  Fashionable 
ladies  have  a  horror  of  seeming  stout,  and  to  retain 
a  slim  appearance  they  will  suffer  agonies  of  cold. 
The  world  would  be  appalled  if  it  knew  how  many 
of  these  women  die  before  their  fortieth  year. 

We  dress  far  too  heavily.  The  fact  is,  that  we 
would  be  a  much  healthier  people  if  we  wore  less 
clothing.      Ladies  especially   wrap  themselves  up 


78  EVERY  MAN   HIS  OWN   DOCTOR. 

too  much,  with  the  result  that  their  blood  does  not 
circulate  freely.  Coats,  ulsters,  and  other  wraps, 
cause  far  more  colds  than  they  prevent. 

Why  have  our  ladies  not  the  smattering  of  scien- 
tific knowledge  that  would  tell  them  to  vary  the 
thickness  of  their  clothing  with  the  weather  ?  New 
garments,  indeed,  they  do  don  for  winter,  but  how 
many  of  them  put  on  extra  flannels  ? 

We  are  far  too  frightened  of  the  weather,  treat- 
ing it  as  our  enemy  when  it  is  ready  to  be  our 
friend.  With  the  first  appearance  of  frost  we  fly 
to  extra  flannel,  and  thus  dangerously  overheat 
ourselves. 

Though  there  has  been  a  great  improvement  in 
this  matter  in  recent  years,  it  would  be  idle  to  pre- 
tend that  we  are  yet  a  cleanly  nation.  To  speak 
bluntly,  we  do  not  change  our  undergarments  with 
sufficient  frequency.  This  may  be  owing  to  various 
reasons,  but  none  of  them  is  an  excuse.  Frequent 
change  of  underclothing  is  a  necessity  for  the  pre- 
servation of  health,  and  woe  to  those  who  neglect 
this  simple  precaution. 

Owing  to  the  carelessness  of  servants  and  others 
it  is  not  going  too  far  to  say  that  four  times  in  five 
undergarments  are  put  on  in  a  state  of  semi-damp- 


EVERY   MAN   HIS  OWN   DOCTOR.  79 

ness.  What  a  fearful  danger  is  here.  We  do  not 
hesitate  to  say  that  every  time  a  person  changes  his 
linen  he  does  it  at  his  peril. 

This  is  such  an  age  of  bustle  that  comparatively 
few  persons  take  time  to  digest  their  food.  They 
swallow  it,  and  run.  Yet  they  complain  of  not  being 
in  good  health .  The  wonder  rather  is  that  they  do  not 
fall  dead  in  the  street,  as,  indeed,  many  of  them  do. 

How  often  have  doctors  been  called  in  to  patients 
whom  they  find  crouching  by  the  fireside  and  com- 
plaining of  indigestion  !  Too  many  medical  men 
pamper  such  patients,  though  it  is  their  plain  duty 
to  tell  the  truth.  And  what  is  the  truth?  Why, 
simply  this,  that  after  dinner  the  patient  is  in  the 
habit  of  spending  his  evening  in  an  arm-chair, 
when  he  ought  to  be  out  in  the  open  air,  walking 
off  the  effects  of  his  heavy  meal. 

Those  who  work  hard  ought  to  eat  plentifully, 
or  they  will  find  that  they  are  burning  the  candle 
at  both  ends.  Surely  no  science  is  required  to 
prove  this.  Work  is,  so  to  speak,  a  furnace,  and 
the  brighter  the  fire  the  more  coals  it  ought  to  be 
fed  with,  or  it  will  go  out.  Yet  we  are  a  people 
who  let  our  systems  go  down  by  disregarding  this 
most  elementary  and  obvious  rule  of  health. 


80  EVERY  MAN  HIS   OWN   DOCTOR. 

If  doctors  could  afford  to  be  outspoken,  they  would 
twenty  times  a  day  tell  patients  that  they  are  simply 
suffering  from  over-eating  themselves.  Every 
foreigner  who  visits  this  country  is  struck  by  this 
propensity  of  our  to  eat  too  much. 

Very  heart-breaking  are  the  statistics  now  to 
hand  from  America  about  the  increase  in  smoking. 
That  this  fatal  habit  is  also  growing  in  favor  in  this 
country  every  man  who  uses  his  eyes  must  see. 
What  will  be  the  end  of  it  we  shudder  to  think, 
but  we  warn  those  in  high  places  that  if  tobacco 
smoking  is  not  checked,  it  will  sap  the  very  vitals 
of  this  country.  Why  is  it  that  nearly  every  young 
man  one  meets  in  the  streets  is  haggard  and  pale  ? 
No  one  will  deny  that  it  is  due  to  tobacco.  As  for 
the  miserable  wretch  himself,  his  troubles  will  soon 
be  over. 

We  have  felt  it  our  duty  from  time  to  time  to 
protest  against  what  is  known  as  the  anti-tobacco 
campaign.  We  are,  we  believe,  under  the  mark  in 
saying  that  nine  doctors  in  every  ten  smoke,  which 
is  sufficient  disproof  of  the  absurd  theory  that  the 
medical  profession,  as  a  whole,  are  against  smoking. 
As  a  disinfectant,  we  are  aware  that  tobacco  has 
saved  many  lives.     In  these  days  of  wear  and  tear, 


EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN  DOCTOR.  8 1 

it  is  specially  useful  as  a  sedative  ;  indeed,  many 
times  a  day,  as  we  pass  pale  young  men  in  the 
streets,  whose  pallor  is  obviously  due  to  over-excite- 
ment about  their  businesses,  we  have  thought  of 
stopping  them,  and  ordering  a  pipe  as  the  medicine 
they  chiefly  require. 

Even  were  it  not  a  destroyer  of  health,  smoking 
could  be  condemned  for  the  good  and  sufficient 
reason  that  it  makes  man  selfish.  It  takes  away 
from  his  interest  in  conversation,  gives  him  a  liking 
for  solitude,  and  deprives  the  family  circle  of  his 
presence. 

Not  only  is  smoking  excellent  for  the  health,  but 
it  makes  the  smoker  a  better  man.  It  ties  him 
down  more  to  the  domestic  circle,  and  loosens  his 
tongue.     In  short,  it  makes  him  less  selfish. 

No  one  will  deny  that  smoking  and  drinking  go 
together.  The  one  provokes  a  taste  for  the  other, 
and  many  a  man  who  has  died  a  drunkard  had  to- 
bacco to  thank  for  giving  him  the  taste  for  drink. 

Every  one  is  aware  that  heavy  smokers  are  seldom 
heavy  drinkers.  When  asked,  as  we  often  are,  for 
a  cure  for  the  drink  madness,  we  have  never  any 
hesitation  in  advising  the  application  of  tobacco  in 
larger  quantities. 

6 


82  EVERY   MAN   HIS   OWN    DOCTOR. 

Finally,  smoking  stupefies  the  intellect. 

In  conclusion,  we  would  remind  our  readers  that 
our  deepest  thinkers  have  almost  invariably  been 
heavy  smokers.  Some  of  them  have  gone  so  far 
as  to  say  that  they  owe  their  intellects  to  their 
pipes. 

The  clerical  profession  is  so  poorly  paid  that  we 
would  not  advise  any  parent  to  send  his  son  into  it. 
Poverty  means  insufficiency  in  many  ways,  and  that 
means  physical  disease. 

Not  only  is  the  medical  profession  overstocked 
(like  all  the  others),  but  medical  work  is  terribly 
trying  to  the  constitution.  Doctors  are  a  short- 
lived race. 

The  law  is  such  a  sedentary  calling,  that  parents 
who  care  for  their  sons'  health  should  advise  them 
against  it. 

Most  literary  people  die  of  starvation. 

Trades  are  very  trying  to  the  young  ;  indeed, 
every  one  of  them  has  its  dangers.  Painters  die 
from  blood  poisoning,  for  instance,  and  masons 
from  the  inclemency  of  the  weather.  The  com- 
mercial life  on  'Change  is  so  exciting  that  for  a 
man  without  a  specially  strong  heart  to  venture 
into  it  is  to  court  death. 


EVERY   MAN   HIS   OWN   DOCTOR.  83 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  such  enemy  to  health  as 
want  of  occupation.  We  would  entreat  all  young 
men,  therefore,  whether  of  private  means  or  not, 
to  attach  themselves  to  some  healthy  calling. 


GRETNA  GREEN 
REVISITED. 


GRETNA    GREEN    REVISITED. 


THE  one  bumpy  street  of  Springfield,  despite 
its  sparse  crop  of  grass,  presents  to  this  day  a 
depressed  appearance,  a  relic  of  the  time  when  it 
doubled  up  under  a  weight  of  thundering  chariots. 
At  the  well-remembered,  notorious  Queen's  Head  I 
stood  in  the  gathering  gloaming,  watching  the  road 
run  yellow,  until  the  last  draggled  hen  had  spluttered 
through  the  pools  to  roost,  and  the  mean  row  of  white- 
washed, shrunken  houses  across  the  way  had  sunk 
into  the  sloppy  ground,  as  they  have  been  doing 
slowly  for  half  a  century,  or  were  carried  away  in 
a  rush  of  rain.  Soaking  weeds  hung  in  lifeless 
bunches  over  the  hedges  of  spears  that  line  the 
roads  from  Gretna;  on  sodden  Canobie  Lea,  where 
Lochinvar's  steed  would  to-day  have  had  to  wade 
through  yielding  slush,  dirty  piles  of  congealed 
snow  were  still  reluctant  to  be  gone;  and  gnarled 
tree  trunks,  equally  with  palings  that  would  have 
come  out  of  the  ground  with  a  sloppy  gluck,  showed 
a  dank  and  cheerless  green.     Yesterday  the  rooks 

87 


88  GRETNA  GREEN   REVISITED. 

dinned  the  air,  and  the  parish  of  Gretna  witnessed 
such  a  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage  as  might 
have  flung  it  back  fifty  years.  Elsewhere  such  a 
solemn  cawing  round  the  pulpit  on  the  tree  tops 
would  denote  a  court  of  justice,  but  in  the  vicinity 
of  Springfield,  it  may  be  presumed,  the  thoughts 
of  the  very  rooks  run  on  matrimony. 

A  little  while  ago  Willum  Lang,  a  postman's 
empty  letter-bag  on  his  back,  and  a  glittering  drop 
trembling  from  his  nose,  picked  his  way  through 
the  puddles,  his  lips  pursed  into  a  portentous  frown, 
and  his  grey  head  bowed  professionally  in  contem- 
plation of  a  pair  of  knock-knee' d  but  serviceable 
shanks.  A  noteworthy  man  Willum,  son  of  Simon, 
son  of  David,  grandson  by  marriage  of  Joseph 
Paisley,  all  famous  "blacksmiths"  of  Gretna 
Green.  For  nigh  a  century  Springfield  has  marked 
time  by  the  Langs,  and  still  finds  ' '  In  David 
Lang's  days"  as  forcible  as  "when  Plancus  was 
consul."  Willum's  predecessors  in  office  reserved 
themselves  for  carriage  runaways,  and  would  shake 
the  lids  from  their  coffins  if  they  knew  that  Willum 
had  to  marry  the  once  despised  "pedestrians." 
"Even  Elliot,"  David  Lang  would  say,  "could 
join  couples  who  came  on  foot,"  and  that,  of  course, 


GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED.  89 

was  very  hard  on  the  poor  pedestrian,  for  greater 
contempt  no  man  ever  had  for  rival  than  David  for 
Elliot,  unless,  indeed,  it  was  Elliot's  for  David. 
But  those  were  the  great  clattering  days,  when 
there  were  four  famous  marrying  shops:  the  two 
rival  inns  of  Springfield,  that  washed  their  hands 
of  each  other  across  the  street,  Mr.  Linton's  aristo- 
cratic quarters  at  Gretna  Hall,  and  the  toll-bar  on 
the  right  side  of  the  Sark.  A  gentleman  who  had 
requisitioned  the  services  of  the  toll-keeper  many 
years  ago  recently  made  a  journey  across  the  border 
to  shake  his  fist  at  the  bar,  and  no  one  in  Gretna 
Green  can  at  all  guess  why.  Far-seeing  Murray, 
the  sometime  priest  of  Gretna  Hall,  informed  me, 
succeeded  Beattie  at  the  toll-house  in  1843,  and 
mighty  convenient  friends  in  need  they  both  proved 
for  the  couples  who  dashed  across  the  border  with 
foaming  fathers  at  their  coaches'  wheels.  The 
stone  bridge  flashed  fire  to  rushing  hoofs,  the  ex- 
ulting pursuers,  knowing  that  a  half-mile  brae  still 
barred  the  way  to  Springfield,  saw  themselves 
tearing  romantic  maidens  from  adventurers'  arms, 
when  Beattie' s  lamp  gleamed  in  the  night,  the 
horses  stopped  as  if  an  invisible  sword  had  cleft 
them  in  twain,  the  maid  was  whisked  like  a  bun- 


9°  GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED. 

die  of  stolen  goods  into  the  toll-bar,  and  her  father 
flung  himself  in  at  the  door  in  time  to  be  intro- 
duced to  his  son-in-law.     Oh,  Beattie  knew  how  to 
do  his  work  expeditiously,  and  fat  he  waxed  on  the 
proceeds.     In  his  later  days  marrying  became  the 
passion  of  his  life,  and  he  never  saw  a  man  and  a 
maid  together  without  creeping  up  behind  them 
and  beginning  the  marriage  service.     In  Springfield 
there  still  are  men  and  women  who  have  fled  from 
him  for  their  celibacy,  marriage  in  Scotland  being 
such  an  easy  matter  that  you  never  know  when 
they  may  not  have  you.     In  joining  couples  for 
the  mere  pleasure  of  the  thing,  Simon  brought  high 
fees  into  disrepute,  and  was  no  favorite  with  the 
rest  of  the  priesthood.     That  half-mile  nearer  the 
border,  Jardine  admits,  gave  the  toll-bar  a  big  ad- 
vantage, but  for  runaways  who  could  risk  another 
ten  minutes,  Gretna  Hall  was  the  place  to  be  mar- 
ried at. 

Willum  Lang's  puckered  face  means  business. 
He  has  been  sent  for  by  a  millworker  from 
I^angholm,  who,  having  an  hour  to  spare,  thinks 
he  may  as  well  drop  in  at  the  priest's  and  get 
spliced  ;  or  by  an  innocent  visitor  wandering 
through    the   village    in    search    of    the   mythical 


GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED.  9 1 

smithy  ;  or  by  a  lawyer  who  shakes  his  finger 
threateningly  at  Willum  (  and  might  as  well  have 
stayed  at  home  with  his  mother).  From  the  most 
distant  shores  letters  reach  him  regarding  Gretna 
marriages,  and  if  Willum  dislikes  monotony  he 
must  be  getting  rather  sick  of  the  stereotyped  be- 
ginning "  I  think  your  charges  very  extortionate." 
The  stereotyped  ending  "but  the  sum  you  asked 
for  is  enclosed,"  is  another  matter.  It  is  generally 
about  midnight  that  the  rustics  of  the  county  rattle 
Willum' s  door  off  it's  snib  and,  bending  over  his 
bed,  tell  him  to  arise  and  many  them.  His  hand 
is  crossed  with  silver  coin,  for  gone  are  the  bride- 
grooms whose  gold  dribbled  in  a  glittering  cascade 
from  fat  purses  to  a  horny  palm  ;  and  then,  with  a 
sleepy  neighbor,  a  cold  hearth,  and  a  rattling  cynic 
of  a  window  for  witnesses,  he  does  the  deed.  Else- 
where I  have  used  these  words  to  describe  the 
scene  :  — "The  room  in  which  the  Gretna  Green 
marriages  have  been  celebrated  for  many  years  is  a 
large  rude  kitchen,  but  dimly  lighted  by  a  small 
1  bole '  window  of  lumpy  glass  that  faces  an  ill-fit- 
ting back  door.  The  draught  generated  between 
the  two  cuts  the  spot  where  the  couples  stand,  and 
must  prove  a  godsend  to  flushed  and  flurried  bride- 


92  GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED. 

grooms.      A   bed — wooden  and  solid,   ornamented 
with  divers  shaped  and  divers  colored  clothes  de- 
pendent from  its  woodwork  like  linen  hung  on  a 
line  to  dry — fills  a  lordly  space.     The  monster  fire- 
place retreats  bashfully  before  it  into  the  opposite 
wall,    and   a   grimy    cracked    ceiling   looks   on    a 
bumpy  stone  floor,  from  which  a  cleanly  man  could 
eat  his  porridge.      One  shabby  wall  is  happily  hid 
by  the  drawers  in  which  Lang  keeps  his  books  ; 
and  against  the  head  of  the  bed  an  apoplectic  Mrs. 
Langtry  in  a  blue  dress  and  yellow  stockings,  re- 
minding the  public  that  Simon  Lang's  teas  are  the 
best,  shudders  at  her  reflection  in  the  looking-glass 
that  dangles  opposite   her  from   a  string."     The 
signboard  over  a  snuffy  tavern  that  attempted  to 
enter  into  rivalry  with  the  Queen's  Head  depicts 
the  priest  on  his  knees  going  through  the  church 
marriage  services,  but  the  Langs  have  always  kept 
their  method  of  performing  the  ceremony  a  secret 
between  themselves  and  the  interested  persons,  and 
the  artist  in  this  case  was  doubtless  drawing  on  his 
imagination.     The  picture   is   discredited   by  the 
scene   of   the  wedding   being   made  in  a   smithy, 
when  it  is  notorious  that  the  "blacksmith"   has 
cut  the  tobacco  plug,  and  caught  fish  in  the  Sol- 


GRETNA  GREEN  REVISITED.  93 

way,  and  worked  at  the  loom,  the  last,  and  the  toll- 
bar,  but  never  wielded  Vulcan's  hammer.  The 
popular  term  is  thus  a  mystery,  though  a  witness 
once  explained,  in  a  trial,  to  Brougham,  that  Gretna 
marriages  were  a  welding  of  heat.  Now  the  weld- 
ing of  heat  is  part  of  a  blacksmith's  functions. 

It  is  not  for  Willum  Lang  to  censure  the  Lang- 
holm millworkers,  without  whose  patronage  he 
would  be  as  a  priest  superannuated,  but  if  they 
could  be  got  to  remember  whom  they  are  married 
to,  it  would  greatly  relieve  his  mind.  When  stand- 
ing before  him  they  are  given  to  wabbling  un- 
steadily on  their  feet,  and  to  taking  his  inquiry 
whether  the  maiden  on  their  right  is  goodly  in 
their  sight  for  an  offer  of  another  "  mutchkin  :" 
and  next  morning  they  sometimes  mistake  some- 
body else's  maiden  for  their  own.  When  one  of 
the  youth  of  the  neighborhood  takes  to  him  a  help- 
mate at  Springfield  his  friend  often  whiles  away  the 
time  by  courting  another,  and  when  they  return  to 
Langholm  things  are  sometimes  a  littled  mixed  up. 
The  priest,  knowing  what  is  expected  of  him,  is 
generally  able  when  appealed  to,  to  ' '  assign  to 
each  bridegroom  his  own  ;"  but  one  shudders  to 
think  what  complications  may  arise  when  Willum's 


94  GRETNA  GREEN   REVISITED. 

eyes  and  memory  go.  These  weddings  are,  of 
course,  as  legal  as  though  Lang  were  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury,  but  the  clergymen  shake  their 
heads,  and  sometimes — as  indeed  was  the  case  even 
in  the  great  days — a  second  marriage  by  a  minister 
is  not  thought  amiss. 

About  the  year  1826,  the  high  road  to  Scotland 
ran  away  from  Springfield.  Weeds  soon  afterwards 
sprouted  in  the  street,  and  though  the  place's  repu- 
tation died  hard,  its  back  had  been  broken.  Run- 
aways skurried  by  oblivious  of  its  existence,  and  at  a 
convenient  point  on  the  new  road  shrewd  John 
Linton  dropped  Gretna  Hall.  Springfield's  con- 
venient situation  had  been  its  sole  recommenda- 
tion, and  when  it  lost  that  it  was  stranded.  The 
first  entry  in  the  Langs'  books  dates  back  to  1771, 
when  Joseph  Paisley  represented  the  priesthood, 
but  the  impetus  to  Gretna  marriages  had  been 
given  by  the  passing  of  Lord  Hardwicke's  act,  a 
score  of  years  before.  Legend  speaks  of  a  Solway 
fisherman  who  taught  tobacconist  Paisley  the  busi- 
ness. Prior  to  1754,  when  the  law  put  its  foot 
down  on  all  unions  not  celebrated  by  ministers  of 
the  Church  of  England,  there  had  been  no  need  to 
resort   to  Scotland,  for   the  chaplains    of  the  fleet 


GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED.  95 

were  anticipating  the  priest's  of  Gretna  Green,  and 
doing  a  roaring  trade.  Broadly  speaking,  it  was 
as  easy  between  the  Reformation  and  1745  to  get 
married  in  the  one  country  as  in  the  other.  The 
Marriage  Act  changed  all  that.  It  did  a  real  injus- 
tice to  non-members  of  the  Established  Church, 
and  only  cured  the  disease  in  one  place  to  let  it 
break  out  in  another.  Lord  Hardwicke  misrht 
have  been  a  local  member  of  Parliament,  pushing 
a  bill  through  the  House  ' '  for  the  promotion  of  Lar- 
ceny and  Rowdyism  at  Gretna  Green."  For  the 
greater  part  of  a  century,  there  was  a  whirling  of 
coaches  and  a  clattering  of  horses  across  the  bor- 
der, after  which  came  marriage  in  England  before 
a  registrar,  and  an  amendment  of  the  Scotch  law 
that  required  residence  north  of  the  Sark,  on  the 
part  of  one  of  the  parties,  for  twenty-one  days 
before  the  ceremony  took  place.  After  that  the 
romance  of  Gretna  Green  was  as  a  tale  that  was  told. 
The  latter  half  of  the  last  century,  and  the  first 
twenty  years  of  this,  were  thus  the  palmy  days  of 
Springfield,  for  after  Gretna  Hall  hung  out  its 
signboard,  the  Langs  were  oftener  seen  at  the  u  big 
house"  than  in  the  double-windowed  parlor  of  the 
Queen's  Head. 


96  GRETNA  GREEN   REVISITED. 

The  present  landlord  of  this  hostelry,  a  light- 
some host,  troubled  with  corns,  who  passes  much  of 
his  time  with  a  knife  in  one  hand  and  his  big  toe  in 
the  other,  is  nephew  of  that  Beattie  who  saw  his 
way  to  bed  by  the  gleam  of  post-boy's  lamps,  and 
spent  his  days  unsnibbing  the  Queen's  Head  door 
to  let  runaways  in,  and  barring  it  to  keep  their 
pursuers  out.  Much  depends  on  habit,  and  Beattie 
slept  most  soundly  to  the  drone  of  the  priest  in  his 
parlor,  and  the  rub-a-dub  of  baffled  parents  on  his 
window-sills.  His  nephew,  also  a  Beattie,  brings 
his  knife  with  him  into  the  immortal  room,  where 
peers  of  the  realm  have  mated  with  country 
wenches,  and  fine  ladies  have  promised  to  obey 
their  father's  stable-boys,  and  two  lord  chancellors 
of  England  with  a  hundred  others  have  blossomed 
into  husbands,  and  one  wedding  was  celebrated  of 
which  neither  Beattie  nor  the  world  takes  any 
account.  There  are  half  a  dozen  tongues  in  the 
inn — itself  a  corpse  now  that  wearily  awaits  inter- 
ment— to  show  you  where  Lord  Erskine  gambolled 
in  a  tablecloth,  while  David  Lang  united  him  in 
the  bonds  of  matrimony  with  his  housekeeper, 
Sarah  Buck.  There  is  the  table  at  which  he  com- 
posed some  Latin  doggerel  in  honor  of  the  event, 


GRETNA  GREEN  REVISITED.  97 

and  the  doubtful  signature  on  a  cracked  pane  of 
glass.  A  strange  group  they  must  have  made — 
the  gaping  landlord  at  the  door,  Mrs.  Buck,  the 
superstitious,  with  all  her  children  in  her  arms, 
David  Lang  rebuking  the  lord  chancellor  for  pos- 
ing in  the  lady's  bonnet,  Erskine  in  his  tablecloth 
skipping  around  the  low-roofed  room  in  answer, 
and  Christina  Johnstone,  the  female  witness,  think- 
ing sadly  that  his  lordship  might  have  known  bet- 
ter. Here,  too,  Lord  Eldon  galloped  one  day  with 
his  ' ( beloved  Bessy  ;' '  and  it  is  not  uninteresting 
to  note  that  though  he  came  into  the  world  eighteen 
months  after  Lord  Erskine,  he  paid  Gretna  Green 
a  business  visit  nearly  fifty  years  before  him. 
Lang's  books  are  a  veritable  magic-lantern,  and 
the  Queen's  Head  the  sheet  on  which  he  casts  his 
figures.  The  slides  change.  Joseph  Paisley  sees 
his  shrewd  assistant,  David  Lang,  marry  his  grand- 
daughter, and  dies  characteristically  across  the 
way.  David  has  his  day,  and  Simon,  his  son,  suc- 
ceeds him  ;  and  in  the  meantime  many  a  memor- 
able figure  glides  shadow-like  across  the  screen. 
The  youth  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth  is  Lord 
George  Lambton.      It  is  an  Earl  of  Westmoreland 

that  plants  his  shoulders  against  the  door,  and  tells 
7 


98  GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED. 

the  priest  to  hurry.  The  foot  that  drums  on  the 
floor  is  Lady  Alicia  Parson's.  A  son  of  Lord  Chief 
Justice  Ellenborough  makes  way  for  his  own  son  ;  a 
daughter  follows  in  the  very  footsteps  of  her  father, 
only  a  few  hours  between  them.  A  daughter  of 
Archdeacon  Philpot  arrives  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  her  companion  forgets  to  grease  the 
landlord's  hand.  The  Hon.  Charles  Law  just 
misses  Lord  Deerhurst.  There  are  ghosts  in 
cocked  hats,  and  naval  and  military  uniform,  in 
muslin,  broadcloth,  tweed  and  velvet,  gold  lace 
and  pigskin  ;  swords  flash,  pistols  smoke,  steaming 
horses  bear  bleeding  riders  out  of  sight,  and  a 
thousand  forms  flit  weird  and  shadowy  through  the 
stifling  room. 

The  dinner  of  the  only  surviving  priest  of  Gretna 
Hall  frizzled  under  the  deft  knife  of  his  spouse  as 
he  rubbed  his  hands  recently  over  the  reminiscences 
of  his  youth.  Willum  Lang  never  officiated  at  the 
Hall .  Intelligent  Jardine,  full  of  years  and  honors, 
now  enjoys  his  ease,  not  without  a  priestly  dignity, 
on  a  kitchen  sofa,  in  his  pocket  edition  of  a  home 
at  Springfield,  and  it  is  perhaps  out  of  respect  to 
his  visitor  that  he  crowns  his  hoary  head  with  a 
still  whiter  hat.     His  arms  outstretched  to  the  fire, 


GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED.  99 

he  looks,  by  the  flashes  of  light,  in  his  ingle-nook  a 
Shakespearian  spirit  crouching  over  an  unholy  pot, 
but  his  genial  laugh  betrays  him,  and  his  comely 
wife  does  not  scruple  to  recall  him  to  himself  when 
he  threatens  to  go  off  in  an  eternal  chuckle.  A 
stalwart  border-woman  she,  in  short  petticoats  and 
delightful  cap,  such  as  in  the  killing  times  of  the 
past  bred  the  Johnny  Armstrongs  and  the  terrible 
moss-troopers  of  the  border.  A  storehouse  of  old 
ballads,  and  a  Scotchwoman  after  Scott's  own 
heart. 

The  day  that  Gretna  Hall  became  an  inn,  its 
landlord  felt  himself  called  to  the  priesthood,  and 
as  long  as  he  and  his  son  remained  above  ground, 
marriage  was  the  heaviest  item  in  their  bills.  But 
when  Gretna  knew  them  no  more,  Jardine's  chance 
had  come.  Even  at  Springfield  the  line  has  always 
been  drawn  at  female  priests,  and  from  the  ' '  big 
house"  used  to  come  frequent  messages  to  the 
shoemaker  with  its  mistress's  compliments  and 
would  he  step  up  at  once.  The  old  gentleman  is  a 
bit  of  a  dandy  in  his  way,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  know 
that  Nature  herself  gave  him  on  those  occasions  a 
hint  when  it  was  time  to  dress.  The  rush  for  him 
down  dark  fields  and  across  the  Headless  Cross  was 


IOO  GRETNA  GREEN   REVISITED. 

in  a  flurry  of  haste,  but  in  the  still  night  the  rum- 
ble of  a  distant  coach  had  been  borne  to  him  over 
the  howes  and  meadows,  and  Jardine  knew  what 
that  meant  as  well  as  the  marriage  service.  Some- 
times the  coaches  came  round  by  Springfield,  when 
the  hall  was  full,  and  there  was  a  tumbling  out  and 
in  again  by  trembling  runaways  at  the  rival  inns. 
Even  the  taverns  have  run  couples,  and  up  and 
down  the  sleety  street  horses  pranced  and  panted 
in  search  of  an  idle  priest.  Jardine  remembers 
one  such  nightmare  time  when  the  clatter  of  a 
pursuing  vehicle  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  a 
sweet  young  lady  in  the  Queen's  Head  flung  up 
her  hands  to  heaven.  Crash  went  her  true  lovers' 
fist  through  a  pane  of  glass  to  awaken  the  street 
(which  always  slept  with  one  eye  open)  with  the 
hoarse  wail,  "  A  hundred  pounds  to  the  man  that 
marries  me  ! ' '  But  big  as  was  the  bribe,  the  speed 
of  the  pursuers  was  greater,  and  the  maiden's  father 
looking  in  at  the  inn  at  an  inconvenient  moment 
called  her  away  to  fulfill  another  engagement.  The 
Solway  lies  white  from  Gretna  Hall  like  a  sheet  of 
mourning  paper,  between  edges  of  black  trees 
and  hills.  The  famous  long,  low  room  still  looks 
out  on  an  ageing  park,  but  they  are  only  ghosts 


GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED.  IOI 

that  join  hands  in  it  now,  and  it  is  a  cling- 
ing to  old  days  that  makes  the  curious  moon  peep 
beneath  the  blind.  The  priest  and  the  unbidden 
witness  still  are,  but  brides  and  bridegrooms  come 
no  more.  To  the  days  of  his  youth  Jardine  had  to 
fling  back  his  memory  to  recall  the  gravel  spring- 
ing from  the  wheels  of  Wakefield's  flying  chariot. 
The  story  is  told  in  Hutchinson's  Chronicles  of 
Gretna  Green,  the  first  volume  of  which  leads 
up  to  but  does  not  broach  the  subject,  and  is 
common  property  at  Springfield.  The  advent- 
urer's dupe  was  an  affectionate  school-girl  on 
whose  feelings  he  worked  by  representing  himself 
as  the  one  friend  who  could  save  her  father  from 
ruin  and  disgrace.  The  supposed  bankrupt  was 
said  to  have  taken  flight  to  Scotland,  and  the 
girl  of  fifteen,  jumping  into  Wakefield's  coach  at 
Liverpool,  started  with  him  in  pursuit.  A  more 
graceless  rascal  never  was,  for  at  Carlisle  the 
adventurer  swore  that  he  had  talked  with  Miss 
Turner's  father  in  an  hotel  where  he  was 
lying  hidden  from  the  sheriff's  officers,  and  that 
the  fugitive's  wish  was  that  she  should,  with- 
out delay,  accept  Mr.  Wakefield's  hand.  The 
poor  lassie,   frantic  with  anxiety,  was   completely 


102  GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED. 

gulled,  and  on  the  eighth  of  March,  1826,  Wake- 
field's coach  drew  up  at  Gretna  Hall.  Too 
late  came  the  pursuit  to  stop  the  marriage,  but  the 
runaways  were  traced  to  France,  and  the  law  soon 
had  the  husband  of  a  week  by  the  heels.  He  had 
trusted,  like  all  his  brotherhood,  to  the  lady's 
father  making  the  best  of  it;  and  so,  perhaps,  he 
did;  for  the  adventurer's  address  for  the  next  three 
years  was — Newgate,  London. 

Spiders  of  both  sexes  kept  their  nets  at 
Gretna  Green,  but  a  tragedy  was  only  enacted  at 
the  hall  between  a  score  of  comedies;  and  they 
were  generally  love-sick  youths  and  maidens  who 
interrupted  the  priest  to  ask  if  that  was  not  the 
'  'so — sound  of  wh — wheels  on  the  gravel  walk?' '  A 
couple  whom  it  would  almost  have  been  a  satisfac- 
tion to  marry  without  a  fee  (for  the  mere  example 
of  the  thing)  was  that  which  raced  from  the  south 
of  England  with  the  lady's  father.  When  they 
reached  the  top  of  a  hill  his  arms  were  gesticulat- 
ing at  the  bottom,  and  they  never  turned  one  cor- 
ner without  seeing  his  steaming  horse  take  another. 
Poor  was  the  fond  lover  (dark  his  prospects  at  Gretna 
Green  in  consequence)  but  brave  the  maid,  to  whom 
her  friends  would  insist  on  leaving  money,  which 


GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED.  103 

was  the  cause  of  the  whole  to-do.  The  father,  look- 
ing on  the  swain  with  suspicious  eye,  took  to  dream- 
ing of  postillions,  high-roads,  blacksmiths  and 
Gretna  Green.  He  would  not  suffer  his  daughter  to 
move  from  his  sight,  and  even  to  dances  he  escorted 
her  in  his  private  carriage,  returning  for  her  (for  he 
was  a  busy  man)  at  night.  Quick  of  invention 
were  the  infuriated  lovers.  Threading  the  mazes 
of  a  dance,  the  girl  was  one  evening  snatched  from 
her  partner's  arms  by  the  announcement  that  her 
father's  carriage  barred  the  way  below.  A  hurried 
explanation  of  why  he  had  come  so  soon,  a  tripping 
down  the  stairs  with  trembling  limbs  into  a  close 
coach,  a  maiden  in  white  in  her  lover's  arms,  and 
hey-ho  for  Gretna  Green.  Jardine  is  mellowed 
with  a  gentle  cynicism,  and  sometimes  he  breaks 
off  in  his  reminiscences  to  wonder  what  people 
want  to  be  married  for.  The  Springfield  priest, 
he  chuckles,  is  a  blacksmith  at  whom  love  cannot 
afford  to  laugh.  Ay,  friend  Jardine,  but  what 
about  the  blacksmith  who  laughs  at  love  ? 

Half  a  century  ago  Mr.  McDiarmid,  a  Scotch 
journalist  of  repute,  loosened  the  tongue  of  a 
Springfield  priest  with  a  bowl  of  toddy.  The 
result  was  as  if  the  sluice  had   been  lifted  bodily 


104  GRETNA   GREEN   REVISITED. 

from  a  dam,  and  stories  (like  the  whisky)  flowed 
like  water.  One  over-curious  paterfamilias  there 
was  who  excused  his  visit  to  the  village  of  wed- 
dings on  the  ground  that  he  wished  to  introduce 
to  the  priest  a  daughter  who  might  one  day  require 
his  services.  "  And  sure  enough,"  old  Elliot,  who 
entered  into  partnership  with  Simon  Lang,  crowed 
to  his  toddy-ladle,  ' '  I  had  her  back  with  a  younger 
man  in  the  matter  of  three  months!"  There 
lives,  too,  in  Springfield's  memory  the  tale  of  the 
father  who  bolted  with  an  elderly  spinster,  and 
returning  to  England  passed  his  daughter  and  her 
lover  on  the  way.  Dark  and  wintry  was  the  night, 
the  two  coaches  rattled  by,  and  next  morning  four 
persons  who  had  gone  wrong  opened  the  eyes  of 
astonishment. 

When  David  Lang  was  asked  during  Wakefield's 
trial  how  much  he  had  been  paid  for  discharging 
the  duties  of  priest,  he  replied  pleasantly,  "^20 
or  ^3°>  or  perhaps  £\o  ;  I  cannot  say  to  a  few 
pounds."  This  was  pretty  well,  but  there  are 
authenticated  cases  in  which  ^ioo  was  paid.  The 
priests  had  no  fixed  fee,  and  charged  according  to 
circumstances.  If  business  was  slack  and  the 
bridegroom  not  pressing,  they  lowered  their  charges, 


GRETNA  GREEN   REVISITED.  105 

but  where  the  bribed  post-boys  told  them  of  high 
rank,  hot  pursuit,  and  heavy  purses,  they  squeezed 
their  dupes  remorselessly.  It  is  told  of  Joseph 
Paisley  that  when  on  his  death-bed  he  heard  the 
familiar  rumble  of  coaches  into  the  village,  he 
shook  death  from  him,  ordered  the  runaways  to 
approach  his  presence,  married  three  couples  from 
his. bed,  and  gave  up  the  ghost  with  three  hundred 
pounds  in  his  palsied  hands.  Beattie  at  the  toll- 
bar,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  scorn  silver  fees, 
and  as  occasion  warranted  the  priests  have  doubt- 
less ranged  in  their  charges  from  half-a-crown 
and  a  glass  of  whisky  to  a  hundred  pounds. 

Though  the  toll-bar  only  at  rare  intervals  got 
wealthy  pairs  into  its  clutches,  Murray  had  not 
been  long  installed  in  office  when  pockets  crammed 
with  fees  made  him  waddle  as  heavily  as  a  duck. 
Fifty  marriages  a  month  was  no  uncommon  occur- 
rence at  Gretna  at  that  time,  and  it  was  then  that 
the  mansion  was  built  which  still  stands  about  a 
hundred  yards  on  the  English  side  of  the  Sark. 
The  toll-keeper,  to  whom  it  owes  its  existence, 
erected  it  for  a  hotel  that  would  rival  Gretna  Hall, 
and  prove  irresistible  to  the  couples  who,  on  getting 
married  on  the  Scotch  side,  would  have  to  pass  it 


106  GRETNA  GREEN   REVISITED. 

on  their  return  journey.  But  the  alterations  in 
the  Marriage  Laws  marred  the  new  hotel's  chances, 
and  Murray  found  that  he  had  over-reached  him- 
self. Perhaps  one  reason  why  he  no  longer  pros- 
pered was  because  he  pursued  a  niggardly  policy 
with  the  postillions,  ostlers,  and  other  rapscallions 
who  demanded  a  share  of  the  booty.  The  Langs 
knew  what  they  were  about  far  too  well  to  quarrel 
with  the  post-boys,  and  stories  are  still  current  in 
Springfield  of  these  faithful  youths  tumbling  their 
employers  into  the  road  rather  than  take  them  to 
a  ' '  blacksmith  ' '  with  whom  they  did  not  deal. 

There  is  no  hope  for  Gretna.  Springfield  was 
and  is  the  great  glory  of  its  inhabitants.  Here 
ran  the  great  wall  of  Adrian,  the  scene  of  many  a 
tough  fight  in  the  days  of  stone  weapons  and  skin- 
clad  Picts.  The  Debatable  Land,  sung  by  Trou- 
vere  and  Troubadour,  is  to-day  but  a  sodden  moss, 
in  which  no  King  Arthur  strides  fearfully  away 
from  the  ' '  grim  lady ' '  of  the  bogs  ;  and  moss- 
troopers, grim  and  gaunt  and  terrible,  no  longer 
whirl  with  lighted  firebrands  into  England.  With 
a  thousand  stars  the  placid  moon  lies  long  drawn 
out  and  drowned  at  the  bottom  of  the  Solway, 
without  a  lovesick  maid  to  shed  a  tear ;  the  chariots 


GRETNA   GREEN    REVISITED.  107 

that  once  rattled  and  flashed  along  the  now  silent 
road  were  turned  into  firewood  decades  ago,  and 
the  runaways,  from  a  Prince  of  Capua  to  a  beggar- 
maid,  are  rotten  and  forgotten. 


MY  FAVORITE  AUTHORESS. 


MY  FAVORITE  AUTHORESS. 


JUST  out  of  the  four-mile  radius — to  give  the 
cabby  his  chance — is  a  sleepy  lane,  lent  by 
the  country  to  the  town,  and  we  have  only  to 
open  a  little  gate  off  it  to  find  ourselves  in  an  old- 
fashioned  garden.  The  house,  with  its  many  quaint 
windows,  across  which  evergreens  spread  their  open 
fingers  as  a  child  makes  believe  to  shroud  his  eyes, 
has  a  literary  look — at  least,  so  it  seems  to  me,  but 
perhaps  this  is  because  I  know  the  authoress  who 
is  at  this  moment  advancing  down  the  walk  to  meet 
me. 

She  has  hastily  laid  aside  her  hoop,  and  crosses 
the  grass  with  the  dignity  that  becomes  a  woman 
of  letters.  Her  hair  falls  over  her  forehead  in  an 
attractive  way,  aud  she  is  just  the  proper  height 
for  an  authoress.  The  face,  so  open  that  one  can 
watch  the  process  of  thinking  out  a  new  novel  in 
it,  from  start  to  finish,  is  at  times  a  little  careworn, 
as  if  it  found  the  world  weighty,  but  at  present 
there  is  a  gracious  smile  on  it,  and  she  greets  me 


112  MY  FAVORITE  AUTHORESS. 

heartily  with  one  hand,  while  the  other  strays  to 
her  neck,  to  make  sure  that  her  lace  collar  is  lying 
nicely.  It  would  be  idle  to  pretend  that  she  is 
much  more  than  eight  years  old,  ' '  but  then  Maurice 
is  only  six." 

Like  most  literary  people  who  put  their  friends 
into  books,  she  is  very  modest,  and  it  never  seems 
to  strike  her  that  I  would  come  all  this  way  to  see 
her. 

"Mamma  is  out,"  she  says  simply,  "but  she 
will  be  back  soon  ;  and  papa  is  at  a  meeting,  but 
he  will  be  back  soon,  too. ' ' 

I  know  what  meeting  her  papa  is  at.  He  is 
crazed  with  admiration  for  Stanley,  and  can  speak 
of  nothing  but  the  Emin  Relief  Expedition.  While 
he  is  away  proposing  that  Stanley  should  get  the 
freedom  of  Hampstead,  now  is  my  opportunity  to 
interview  the  authoress. 

( '  Won' t  you  come  into  the  house  ? ' ' 

I  accompany  the  authoress  to  the  house,  while 
we  chat  pleasantly  on  literary  topics. 

"  Oh,  there  is  Maurice,  silly  boy  !  " 

Maurice  is  too  busy  shooting  arrows  into  the 
next  garden  to  pay  much  attention  to  me  ;  and  the 
authoress  smiles  at  him  good-naturedly. 


MY  FAVORITE  AUTHORESS.  113 

"I  hope  you'll  stay  to  dinner,"  he  says  to  me, 
"because  then  we'll  have  two  kinds  of  pudding." 

The  authoress  and  I  give  each  other  a  look  which 
means  that  children  will  be  children,  and  then  we 
go  indoors. 

1 '  Are  you  not  going  to  play  any  more  ? ' '  cries 
Maurice  to  the  authoress. 

She  blushes  a  little. 

"I  was  playing  with  him,"  she  explains,  "to 
keep  him  out  of  mischief  till  mamma  comes 
back." 

In  the  drawing-room  we  talk  for  a  time  of  ordin- 
ary matters — of  the  allowances  one  must  make  for 
a  child  like  Maurice,  for  instance — and  gradually 
we  drift  to  the  subject  of  literature.  I  know  liter- 
ary people  sufficiently  well  to  be  aware  that  they 
will  talk  freely — almost  too  freely — of  their  work 
if  approached  in  the  proper  spirit. 

1 '  Are  you  busy  just  now  ?  "  I  ask,  with  assumed 
carelessness,  and  as  if  I  had  not  been  preparing  the 
question  since  I  heard  papa  was  out. 

She  looks  at  me,  suspiciously,  as  authors  usually 
do  when  asked  such  a  question.  They  are  not 
certain  whether  you  are  really  sympathetic.  How- 
ever, she  reads  honesty  in  my  eyes. 


114  MY    FAVORITE   AUTHORESS. 

"Oil,  well,  I  am  doing  a  little  thing."  (They 
always  say  this.) 

' '  A  story  or  an  article  ?  ' ' 

"A  story." 

' '  I  hope  it  will  be  good. ' ' 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  like  it  much."  (This 
is  another  thing  they  say,  and  then  they  wait  for 
you  to  express  incredulity.) 

' '  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  a  fine  thing.  Have 
you  given  it  a  name  ?  ' ' 

' '  Oh,  yes  ;  I  always  write  the  name.  Some- 
times I  don' t  write  any  more. ' ' 

As  she  was  in  a  confidential  mood  this  seemed 
an  excellent  chance  for  getting  her  views  on  some 
of  the  vexed  literary  questions  of  the  day.  For 
instance,  everybody  seems  to  be  more  interested  in 
hearing  during  what  hours  of  the  day  an  author 
writes  than  in  reading  his  book. 

"  Do  you  work  best  in  the  early  part  of  the  day 
or  at  night  ?  ' ' 

"  I  write  my  stories  just  before  tea." 

1 '  That  surprises  me.  Most  writers,  I  have  been 
told,  get  through  a  good  deal  of  work  in  the 
morning. ' ' 

"Oh,  but  I  go  to  school  as  soon  as  breakfast  is 


over. ' ' 


MY   FAVORITE   AUTHORESS.  115 

' '  And  you  don' t  write  at  night  ?  ' ' 

"No  ;  nurse  always  turns  the  gas  down." 

I  had  read  somewhere  that  among  the  novelist's 
greatest  difficulties  is  that  of  sustaining  his  own 
interest  in  a  novel  day  by  day  until  it  is  finished. 

"  Until  your  new  work  is  completed  do  you  fling 
your  whole  heart  and  soul  into  it?  I  mean,  do 
you  work  straight  on  at  it,  so  to  speak,  until  you 
have  finished  the  last  chapter?  " 

"Oh,  yes." 

The  novelists  were  lately  reproved  in  a  review 
for  working  too  quickly,  and  it  was  said  that  one 
wrote  a  whole  novel  in  two  months. 

"  How  long  does  it  take  you  to  write  a  novel  ?  " 

' '  Do  you  mean  a  long  novel  ?  ' ' 

"Yes." 

' '  It  takes  me  nearly  an  hour. ' ' 

' '  For  a  really  long  novel  ?  ' ' 

1 '  Yes,  in  three  volumes.  I  write  in  tnree  exer- 
cise-books— a  volume  in  each." 

"You  write  very  quickly." 

"Of  course,  a  volume  doesn't  fill  a  whole  exer- 
cise-book. They  are  penny  exercise-books.  I 
have  a  great  many  three-volume  stories  in  the 
three  exercise-books." 


Il6  MY   FAVORITE   AUTHORESS. 

"  But  are  they  really  three-volume  novels?" 

' '  Yes,  for  they  are  in  chapters,  and  one  of  them 
has  twenty  chapters." 

"  And  how  many  chapters  are  there  in  a  page  ?  " 

' '  Not  very  many. ' '  « 

Some  authors  admit  that  they  take  their  charac- 
ters from  real  life,  while  others  declare  that  they 
draw  entirely  upon  their  imagination. 

' '  Do  you  put  real  people  into  your  novels  ? ' ' 

' '  Yes,  Maurice  and  other  people,  but  generally 
Maurice. ' ' 

' '  I  have  heard  that  some  people  are  angry  with 
authors  for  putting  them  into  books." 

' '  Sometimes  Maurice  is  angry,  but  I  can' t 
always  make  him  an  engine-driver,  can  I  ?  " 

"No.  I  think  it  is  quite  unreasonable  on  his 
part  to  expect  it.  I  suppose  he  likes  to  be  made 
an  engine-driver  ?  ' ' 

' '  He  is  to  be  an  engine-driver  when  he  grows 
up,  he  says.     He  is  a  silly  boy,  but  I  love  him." 

"What  else  do  you  make  him  in  your  books?  " 

"To-day  I  made  him  like  Stanley,  because  I 
think  that  is  what  papa  would  like  him  to  be  ;  and 
yesterday  he  was  papa,  and  I  was  his  coachman. ' ' 

"He  would  like  that?" 


MY   FAVORITE   AUTHORESS.  117 

"No,  he  wanted  me  to  be  papa  and  him  the 
coachman.  Sometimes  I  make  him  a  pirate,  and 
he  likes  that,  and  once  I  made  him  a  girl." 

' '  He  would  be  proud  ?' ' 

"That  was  the  day  he  hit  me.  He  is  awfully 
angry  if  I  make  him  a  girl,  silly  boy.  Of  course 
he  doesn't  understand." 

1 '  Obviously  not.  But  did  you  not  punish  him 
for  being  so  cruel  as  to  hit  you  ?  ' ' 

' '  Yes,  I  turned  him  into  a  cat,  but  he  said  he 
would  rather  be  a  cat  than  a  girl.  You  see  he's 
not  much  more  than  a  baby — though  I  was  writing 
books  at  his  age." 

"Were  you  ever  charged  with  plagiarism?  I 
mean  with  copying  your  books  out  of  other  people's 
books. ' ' 

"Yes,  often." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  the  fate  of  all  authors.  I  am 
told  that  literary  people  write  best  in  an  old 
coat . ' ' 

"Oh,  I  like  to  be  nicely  dressed  when  I  am 
writing.  Here  is  papa,  and  I  do  believe  he  has 
another  portrait  of  Stanley  in  his  hand.  Mamma 
will  be  so  annoyed." 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE 
SCHOOL. 


THE 

CAPTAIN  OF  THE  SCHOOL. 


When  Peterkin,  who  is  twelve,  wrote  to  us 'that 
there  was  a  possibility  (  "  but  don't  count  on  it," 
he  said)  of  his  bringing  the  captain  of  the  school 
home  with  him  for  a  holiday,  we  had  little  con- 
ception what  it  meant.  The  captain  we  only 
knew  by  report  as  the  "man  *\  who  lifted  leg-balls 
over  the  pavilion  and  was  said  to  have  made  a  joke 
to  the  head-master's  wife.  By-and-by  we  under- 
stood the  distinction  that  was  to  be  conferred  on  us. 
Peterkin  instructed  his  mother  to  send  the  captain 
a  formal  invitation  addressed  "J.  Rawlins,  Esq." 
This  was  done,  but  in  such  a  way  that  Peterkin 
feared  we  might  lose  our  distinguished  visitor. 
u  You  shouldn't  have  asked  him  for  all  the  holi- 
days," Peterkin  wrote,  "as  he  has  promised  a 
heap  of  fellows."  Then  came  a  condescending 
note  from  the  captain,  saying  that  if  he  could 
manage  it  he  would  give  us  a  few  days.  In  this 
letter  he  referred  to  Peterkin  as  his  young  friend. 
Peterkin  wrote  shortly  afterwards  asking  his  sister 

121 


122  THE   CAPTAIN  OF  THE  SCHOOL. 

Grizel  to  send  him  her  photograph.  "If  you 
haven't  one,"  he  added,  "what  is  the  color  of 
your  eyes?"  Grizel  is  eighteen,  which  is  also,  I 
believe,  the  age  of  J.  Rawlins.  We  concluded 
that  the  captain  had  been  sounding  Peterkin  about 
the  attractions  that  our  home  could  offer  him  ;  but 
Grizel  neither  sent  her  brother  a  photograph  nor 
any  account  of  her  personal  appearance.  ' '  It 
doesn't  matter, ' '  Peterkin  wrote  back  ;  "I  told  him 
you  were  dark. ' '  Grizel  is  rather  fair,  but  Peter- 
kin had  not  noticed  that. 

Up  to  the  very  last  he  was  in  an  agony  lest  the 
captain  should  disappoint  him.  "  Don't  tell  any- 
body he  is  coming, ' '  he  advised  us,  ' '  for,  of  course, 
there  is  no  saying  what  may  turn  up. ' '  Never- 
theless the  captain  came  and  we  sent  the  dog-cart 
to  the  station  to  meet  him  and  Peterkin.  On  all 
previous  occasions  one  of  us  had  gone  to  the  sta- 
tion with  the  cart  ;  but  Peterkin  wrote  asking  us 
not  to  do  so  this  time.  ' '  Rawlins  hates  any  fuss, ' ' 
he  said. 

Somewhat  to  our  relief,  we  found  the  captain 
more  modest  than  it  would  have  been  reasonable 
to  expect.  "This  is  Rawlins,"  was  Peterkin's 
simple  introduction  ;  but  it  could  not  have   been 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  SCHOOL.  1 23 

done  with  more  pride  had  the  guest  been  Mr.  W. 
G.  Grace  himself.  One  thing  I  liked  in  Rawlins 
from  the  first :  his  consideration  for  others.  When 
Peterkin' s  mother  and  sister  embraced  that  boy  on 
the  doorstep,  Rawlins  pretended  not  to  see.  Peter- 
kin  frowned,  however,  at  this  show  of  affection, 
and  with  a  red  face  looked  at  the  captain  to  see 
how  he  took  it.  With  much  good  taste,  Peterkin 
said  nothing  about  this  "fuss"  on  the  doorstep, 
and  I  concluded  that  he  would  let  it  slide.  It  has 
so  far  been  a  characteristic  of  that  boy  that  he  can 
let  anything  which  is  disagreeable  escape  his  mem- 
ory. This  time,  however,  as  I  subsequently  learned 
he  had  only  bottled  up  his  wrath  to  pour  it  out 
upon  his  sister.  Finding  her  alone  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  he  opened  his  mind  by  remarking  that 
this  was  a  nice  sort  of  thing  she  had  done,  making 
a  fool  of  him  before  another  fellow.  Asked  boldly 
— for  Grizel  can  be  freezing  on  occasion  not  only 
to  her  own  brother,  but  to  other  people's  brothers 
— what  he  meant,  Peterkin  inquired  hotly  if  she 
was  going  to  pretend  that  she  had  not  kissed  him  in 
Rawlins'  presence.  Grizel  replied  that  if  Rawlins 
thought  anything  of  that  he  was  a  nasty  boy  ;  at 
which  Peterkin  echoed  "boy"  with  a  grim  laugh, 


124  THE   CAPTAIN   OF  THE   SCHOOL. 

and  said  he  only  hoped  she  would  see  the  captain 
some  day  when  the  ground  suited  his  style  of  bowl- 
ing. Grizel  replied  contemptuously  that  the  time 
would  come  when  both  Peterkin  and  his  disagree- 
able friend  would  be  glad  to  be  kissed  ;  upon  which 
her  brother  flung  out  of  the  room,  warmly  protest- 
ing that  she  had  no  right  to  bring  such  charges 
against  fellows. 

Though  Grizel  was  thus  a  little  prejudiced 
against  the  captain,  he  had  not  been  a  day  in  the 
house  when  we  began  to  feel  the  honor  that  his 
visit  conferred  on  us.  He  was  modest  almost  to 
the  verge  of  shyness  ;  but  it  was  the  modesty  that  is 
worn  by  a  man  who  knows  he  can  afford  it.  While 
,  Peterkin  was  there  Rawlins  had  no  need  to  boast, 
for  Peterkin  did  the  boasting  for  him.  When, 
however,  the  captain  exerted  himself  to  talk,  Peter- 
kin was  contented  to  retire  into  the  shade  and 
gaze  at  him.  He  would  look  at  all  of  us  from  his 
seat  in  the  background,  and  note  how  Rawlins  was 
striking  us.  Peterkin' s  face  as  he  gazed  upon  that 
of  the  captain  went  far  beyond  the  rapture  of  a 
lover  singing  to  his  mistress's  eyebrow.  He  fetched 
and  carried  for  him,  anticipated  his  wants  as  if 
Rawlins   were  an  invalid,   and   bore   his   rebukes 


THE   CAPTAIN   OF   THE  SCHOOL,.  1 25 

meekly.  When  Rawlins  thought  that  Peterkin  was 
speaking  too  much,  he  had  merely  to  tell  him  to 
shut  up,  when  Peterkin  instantly  collapsed.  We 
noticed  one  great  change  in  Peterkin.  Formerly, 
when  he  came  home  for  the  holidays  he  had 
strongly  objected  to  making  what  he  called  draw- 
ing-room calls,  but  all  that  was  changed.  Now 
he  went  from  house  to  house,  showing  the  captain 
off.  ' '  This  is  Rawlins, ' '  remained  his  favorite 
form  of  introduction.  He  is  a  boy  who  can  never 
feel  comfortable  in  a  drawing-room,  and  so  the 
visits  were  generally  of  short  duration.  They  had 
to  go  because  they  were  due  in  another  house  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  or  he  had  promised  to  let 
Jemmy  Clinker,  who  is  our  local  cobbler  and  a 
great  cricketer,  see  Rawlins.  When  a  lady  en- 
gaged the  captain  in  conversation,  Peterkin  did 
not  scruple  to  sign  to  her  not  to  bother  him  too 
much  ;  and  if  they  were  asked  to  call  again,  Peter- 
kin said  he  couldn't  promise.  There  was  a  re- 
markable thing  the  captain  could  do  to  a  walking 
stick,  which  Peterkin  wanted  him  to  do  every- 
where. It  consisted  in  lying  flat  on  the  floor  and 
then  raising  yourself  in  an  extraordinary  way  by 
means  of  the  stick.      I  believe  it  is  a  very  difficult 


126  THE   CAPTAIN  OF  THE  SCHOOL. 

feat,  and  the  only  time  I  saw  our  guest  prevailed 
upon  to  perform  it  he  looked  rather  apoplectic. 
Sometimes  he  would  not  do  it,  apparently  because 
he  was  not  certain  whether  it  was  a  dignified  pro- 
ceeding. He  found  it  very  hard,  nevertheless,  to 
resist  the  temptation,  and  it  was  the  glory  of  Peter- 
kin  to  see  him  yield  to  it.  From  certain  noises 
heard  in  Peterkin's  bedroom  it  is  believed  that  he 
is  practicing  the  feat  himself. 

Peterkin,  you  must  be  told,  is  an  affectionate 
boy,  and  almost  demonstrative  to  his  relatives  if 
no  one  is  looking.  He  was  consequently  very 
anxious  to  know  what  the  captain  thought  of  us 
all,  and  brought  us  our  testimonials  as  proudly  as 
if  they  were  medals  awarded  for  saving  life  at  sea. 
It  is  pleasant  to  me  to  know  that  I  am  the  kind  of 
governor  Rawlins  would  have  liked  himself,  had 
he  required  one.  Peterkin's  mother,  however,  is 
the  captain's  favorite.  She  pretended  to  take  the 
young  man's  preference  as  a  joke  when  her  son  in- 
formed her  of  it,  but  in  reality  I  am  sure  she  felt 
greatly  relieved.  If  Rawlins  had  objected  to  us  it 
would  have  put  Peterkin  in  a  very  awkward  po- 
sition. As  for  Grizel,  the  captain  thinks  her  a 
very   nice  little  girl,   but   ' '  for  choice, ' '    he  says 


THE   CAPTAIN   OF  THE  SCHOOL.  1 27 

(according  to  Peterkin)  "give  him  a  bigger 
woman."  Grizel  was  greatly  annoyed  when  he 
told  her  this,  which  much  surprised  him,  for  he 
thought  it  quite  as  much  as  she  had  any  right  to 
expect.  On  the  whole,  we  were  perhaps  rather 
glad  when  Rawlins  left,  for  it  was  somewhat  try- 
ing to  live  up  to  him.  Peterkin's  mother,  too,  has 
discovered  that  her  boy  has  become  round-shoul- 
dered. It  is  believed  that  this  is  the  result  of  a 
habit  he  acquired  when  in  Rawlins's  company  of 
leaning  forward  to  catch  what  people  were  saying 
about  the  captain. 


THOUGHTFUL  BOYS  MAKE 
THOUGHTFUL  MEN. 


THOUGHTFUL  BOYS  MAKE 
THOUGHTFUL  MEN. 


URQUHART  is  a  boy  who  lives  in  fear  that  his 
friends  and  relations  will  send  him  the 
wrong  birthday  presents.  Before  his  birthday 
came  round  this  year,  he  dropped  them  pretty 
broad  hints  as  to  the  kind  of  gift  he  would  prefer, 
supposing  they  meant  to  remember  the  occasion. 
He  worked  his  people  differently,  according  to  the 
relationship  that  existed  between  him  and  them. 
Thus  to  his  mother  he  simply  wrote,  "A  fishing- 
rod  is  what  I  want  ;  "  but  to  an  uncle,  from  whom 
there  was  only  the  possibility  of  the  present,  he  said, 
4 '  By  the  way,  next  Monday  week  is  my  birthday, 
and  my  mother  is  going  to  send  me  a  fishing-rod. 
Wouldn't  it  be  jolly  rot  if  any  other  body  sent  me  a 
fishing-rod? — Your  affectionate  and  studious  nephew, 
Thomas  Urquhart. ' '  To  an  elderly  lady,  with  whom 
he  had  once  spent  part  of  his  summer  holiday,  he 
wrote,  u  By-the-bye"  (he  always  came  to  the  point 

131 


132  THOUGHTFUL    BOYS 

with  by-the-bye),  "  next  Monday  week  is  my  birth- 
day. I  am  wondering  if  anybody  will  send  me  a 
cake  like  the  ones  you  bake  so  beautifully." 

That  lady  should,  of  course,  figuratively  have 
punched  Urquhart's  head,  but  his  communication 
charmed  her.  She  did  not,  however,  send  him  a 
cake.  He  had  a  letter  from  her  in  a  few  days,  in 
which,  without  referring  to  his  insinuating  remarks 
about  his  birthday  and  her  cakes,  she  expressed 
a  hope  that  he  was  working  hard.  Urquhart 
thought  this  very  promising,  and  sent  a  reply  that 
undid  him.  "  I  am  sweating,"  he  said,  "  no  end  ; 
and  I  think  there  is  no  pleasure  like  perusing 
books.  When  the  other  chaps  go  away  to  play,  I 
stay  at  the  school  and  peruse  books."  After  that 
Urquhart  counted  the  old  lady  among  his  certain- 
ties, and  so  she  was,  after  a  manner.  On  his  birth- 
day he  received  a  gift  from  her,  and  also  a  letter, 
in  which  she  said  that  her  original  intention  had 
been  to  send  him  a  cake.  "  But  your  nice  letter," 
she  went  on,  ' '  in  which  you  say  you  are  fond  of 
reading,  reminds  me  that  you  are  getting  to  be  a 
big  boy,  so  I  send  you  a  book  instead,"  Urquhart 
anxiously  undid  the  brown  paper  in  which  the 
book   was    wrapped.       It   was  a  volume  of  mild 


MAKE  THOUGHTFUL   MEN.  1 33 

biographies,    entitled,    "Thoughtful     Boys    Make 
Thoughtful  Men." 

From  its  first  appearance  among  us,  this  book 
caused  a  certain  amount  of  ill-feeling.  I  learned 
by  accident  that  Urquhart,  on  the  strength  of  the 
lady's  letter,  had  stated  for  a  fact  to  his  comrades 
that  she  was  going  to  send  him  a  cake.  He  had 
also  taken  Fleming  Secundus  to  a  pastry-cook's  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  school,  and  asked  him  to  turn 
his  eyes  upon  a  cake  which  had  the  place  of  honor 
in  the  centre  of  the  window.  Secundus  admitted 
with  a  sigh  that  it  was  a  beauty.  Without  com- 
ment Urquhart  led  him  to  our  local  confec- 
tioner's, and  pointed  out  another  cake.  Secundus 
again  passed  favorable  criticism,  the  words  he  used, 
I  have  reason  to  believe,  being  "  Oh,  Crikey  !  "  By 
this  time  Urquhart  had  exhausted  the  shops  of  an 
interesting  kind  in  our  neighborhood,  and  he  and 
his  companion  returned  to  the  school.  For  a  time 
Urquhart  said  nothing,  but  at  last  he  broke  the 
silence.  "You  saw  yon  two  cakes?"  he  asked 
Secundus,  who  replied,  with  a  smack  of  the  lips, 
in  the  affirmative.  "Then  let  me  tell  you,"  said 
Urquhart,  solemnly,  "that  the  two  of  them  rolled 
together  don't  come  within  five  miles  of  the  cake 


134  THOUGHTFUL    BOYS 

I'm  to  get  on  my  birthday. "  Tremendous  news 
like  this  spreads  through  a  school  like  smoke,  and 
Urquhart  was  courted  as  he  had  never  been 
before.  One  of  the  most  pitiful  cases  of  toadyism 
known  to  me  was  witnessed  that  very  day  in  the 
foot-ball  field.  I  was  playing  in  a  school  match  on 
the  same  side  as  Urquhart  and  a  boy  called  Cocky 
Jones  by  his  associates  because  of  his  sublime  im- 
pertinence to  his  master.  While  Urquhart  was 
playing  his  shoelace  became  loosened,  and  he 
stooped  to  tie  it.  "I  say,  Urquhart,"  cried  Cocky, 
"let  me  do  that  for  you  !  "  It  will  thus  be  seen, 
taking  one  thing  with  another,  that  Urquhart' s 
confidence  in  the  old  lady  had  raised  high  hopes. 
( '  Is  this  the  day  Urquhart  gets  his  cake  ?  ' '  the 
"  fellows  "  asked  each  other.  Consider  their  indig- 
nation when  he  got,  instead,  "Thoughtful  Boys 
Make  Thoughtful  Men."  Secundus  refused  to 
speak  to  him  ;  Williamson,  Green,  Robbins,  Tosh 
and  others  scowled  as  if  he  had  stolen  their  cake  ; 
Cocky  Jones  kicked  him  and  bolted. 

The  boy  who  felt  the  disappointment  most  was, 
however,  Urquhart  himself.  He  has  never  been  a 
shining  light  in  his  classes,  but  that  day  he 
stumbled  over  the  Latin  grammar  at  every  step. 


MAKE   THOUGHTFUL   MEN.  1 35 

From  nine  to  ten  he  was  quiet  and  sullen,  like  one 
felled  by  the  blow.  It  is,  I  believe,  notorious  that 
in  a  fair  fight  Cocky  Jones  could  not  stand  up  before 
Urquhart  for  a  moment  ;  yet,  when  Cocky  kicked, 
Urquhart  did  not  pursue  him.  Between  ten  and 
eleven,  Urquhart  had  a  cynical  countenance,  which 
implied  that  his  faith  in  humanity  was  gone.  By 
twelve  he  looked  fierce,  as  if  he  meant  to  write  his 
benefactress,  and  give  her  a  piece  of  his  mind.  I 
saw  him  during  the  dinner-hour  in  hot  controversy 
with  Green  and  Tosh,  who  were  evidently  saying 
that  he  had  deceived  them.  From  this  time  he 
was  pugnacious,  like  one  determined  to  have  it  out 
with  somebody,  and  as  he  can  use  his  fists,  this 
mood  made  his  companions  more  respectful.  Flem- 
ing Secundus  is  his  particular  chum,  and  after  the 
first  bitterness  of  disappointment,  Secundus  re- 
turned to  his  allegiance.  He  offered  to  mark 
Cocky  Jones'  face,  I  fancy,  for  I  saw  him  in  full 
pursuit  of  Cocky  in  the  playground.  Having 
made  it  up,  he  and  Urquhart  then  discussed  the 
matter  calmly  in  a  corner.  They  had  several 
schemes  before  them.  One  was  to  send  the  book 
back,  saying  that  Urquhart  had  already  a  copy  of  it. 
"But,  I  haven't,"  said  Urquhart. 


136  THOUGHTFUL    BOYS 

"Williamson  has  read  it,  though,"  said  Secun- 
dus,  as  if  that  was  much  the  same  thing. 

' '  But  though  we  did  send  it  back, ' '  Urquhart 
remonstrated,  "the  chances  are  that  she  would 
send  me  another  book  in  its  place. ' ' 

His  faith,  you  see,  had  quite  gone. 

"  You  could  tell  her  you  had  got  such  a  lot  of 
books  that  you  would  prefer  a  cake  for  a 
change  ?' ' 

Urquhart  said  that  would  be  putting  it  too 
plain. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Secundus,  "even  though 
she  did  send  you  another  book,  it  would  perhaps 
be  a  better  one  than  that.  Tell  her  to  send  '  The 
Boy  Crusoes.'     I  haven't  read  it." 

"I  have,  though,"  said  Urquhart. 

"Well,  she  could  send  'The  Prairie  Hunters.'  " 

"She's  not  the  kind,"  said  Urquhart.  "It's 
always  these  improving  books  she  buys .' ' 

Ultimately  the  two  boys  agreed  upon  a  line  of 
action  which  was  hardly  what  the  reader  might 
expect.  Urquhart  wrote  letters  of  thanks  to  all 
those  who  had  remembered  his  birthday,  and  to 
the  old  lady  the  letter  which  passed  through  my 
hands  read  as  follows  : 


make  thoughtful  men.  1 37 

"Dear  Miss : 

I  sit  down  to  thank  yon  very  faithfully  for 
your  favor,  namely,  the  book  entitled  '  Thoughtful 
Boys  Make  Thoughtful  Men.'  It  is  a  jolly  book, 
and  I  like  it  no  end  better  than  a  cake,  which  would 
soon  be  ate  up,  and  then  nothing  to  show  for  it.  I 
am  reading  your  beautiful  present  regular,  and 
hoping  it  will  make  me  a  thoughtful  boy  so  as  I 
may  be  a  thoughtful  man,  no  more  at  present, 

I  am,  Dear  Miss , 

Your  very  sincere  friend, 

Thomas  Urquhart." 

Our  boys  generally  end  up  their  letters  in  some 
such  way  as  that,  it  being  a  method  of  making 
their  epistles  cover  a  little  more  paper.  As  I  feared, 
Urquhart' s  letter  was  merely  diplomatic.  He  had 
not  come  round  to  the  opinion  that  after  all  a  book 
was  better  than  the  cake,  but  he  had  seen  the 
point  of  Fleming's  sudden  suggestion,  that  the  best 
plan  would  be  to  "keep  in  "  with  his  benefactress. 

Secundus   had   shown   that   if    Miss    M was 

bothered  about  this  year's  present,  she  would  be 
less  likely  to  send  anything  next  year,  and  this 
sank  into  Urquhart' s  mind.  Hence  the  tone  of  his 
letter  of  thanks. 


138  THOUGHTFUL    BOYS 

It  remains  to  follow  the  inglorious  career  of  this 
copy  of  "Thoughtful  Boys  make  Thoughtful 
Men. "  First,  Urquhart  was  openly  contemptuous 
of  it,  and  there  seemed  a  probability  of  its  only 
being  used  as  a  missile.  Soon,  however,  he  dropped 
hints  that  it  was  a  deeply  interesting  story,  follow- 
ing these  hints  up  with  the  remark  that  he  was 
open  to  offers.  He  and  Fleming  Secundus  had 
quite  a  tiff  about  it,  though  they  are  again  good 
friends.  Secundus,  it  appears,  had  gone  the  length 
of  saying  that  it  was  worth  a  shilling,  and  had 
taken  it  to  his  bed  to  make  sure  of  this.  Urquhart 
considered  it  as  good  as  bought,  but  Secundus 
returned  it  to  him  next  day.  Examination  of  the 
book  roused  the  suspicions  of  Urquhart,  who 
charged  Secundus  with  having  read  it  by  peeping 
between  the  pages,  which,  to  enhance  its  commer- 
cial value,  had  remained  uncut.  This  Secundus 
denied,  but  he  had  left  the  mark  of  his  thumb  on 
it.  Eventually  the  book  was  purchased  by  Cocky 
Jones,  but  not  without  a  row.  Cocky  went  up  to 
Urquhart  one  day  and  held  out  a  shilling,  saying 
that  he  would  give  it  for  ' '  Thoughtful  Boys  Make 
Thoughtful  Men."  The  owner  wanted  to  take  the 
shilling  at  once,  and  give  up  the  book  later  in  the 


MAKE   THOUGHTFUL   MEN.  1 39 

day,  but  Cocky  insisted  on  its  being  put  into  his 
hands  immediately.  That  Jones  should  be  anxious 
to  become  the  possessor  of  an  improving  book  sur- 
prised Urquhart,  but  in  his  haste  to  make  sure  of 
the  shilling,  he  handed  over  "Thoughtful  Boys 
Make  Thoughtful  Men."  Within  an  hour  of  the 
striking  of  this  bargain  a  rumor  reached  Urquhart's 
ears  that  Cocky  had  resold  the  work  for  one  and 
sixpence.  Inquiries  were  instituted,  which  led  to 
a  discovery.  At  our  school  there  is  a  youth  called 
Dicky  Jenkinson,  who,  though  not  exactly  a 
thoughtful  boy,  has  occasional  aspirations  in  that 
direction.  Being  for  the  moment  wealthy,  Jenkin- 
son had  remarked,  in  the  presence  of  Cocky,  that 
one  and  sixpence  would  not  be  too  much  to  give 
for  Urquhart's  copy  of  "Thoughtful  Boys  Make 
Thoughtful  Men."  Feeling  his  way  cautiously, 
Cocky  asked  whether  he  meant  that  the  book 
would  be  cheap  at  one  and  sixpence  to  anybody 
who  wanted  it,  or  whether  he  (Dicky)  was  willing 
and  able  to  expend  that  sum  on  it.  Thus  brought 
to  bay,  Jenkinson  solemnly  declared  that  he  meant 
to  make  Urquhart  an  offer  that  very  day.  Cocky 
made  off  to  think  this  matter  over,  for  he  was 
aware  that  the  book  had  been  already  offered  to 


I40  THOUGHTFUL    BOYS 

Fleming  Secundus  for  a  shilling.  He  saw  that  by 
taking  prompt  action  he  might  clear  sixpence 
before  bedtime.  Unfortunately,  he  was  not  able 
to  buy  the  book  from  Urquhart,  for  he  was  desti- 
tute of  means,  and  he  knew  it  would  be  mere  folly 
to  ask  Urquhart  for  credit.  In  these  painful  cir- 
cumstances he  took  Robbins  into  his  confidence. 
At  first  he  merely  asked  Robbins  to  lend  him  a 
shilling,  and  Robbins  merely  replied  that  he  would 
do  no  such  thing.  To  show  that  the  money  would 
be  returned  promptly,  Cocky  then  made  a  clean 
breast  of  it,  after  which  Robbins  was  ready  to  lend 
him  an  ear.  Robbins,  however,  stipulated  that  he 
should  get  half  of  the  spoils. 

Cocky,  as  has  been  seen,  got  the  book  from 
Urquhart,  but  when  it  came  to  the  point,  Jenkin- 
son  was  reluctant  to  part  with  the  one  and  six- 
pence. In  this  extremity  Cocky  appealed  to 
Robbins,  who  at  once  got  hold  of  Dicky  and 
threatened  to  slaughter  him  if  he  did  not  keep  to 
his  bargain.  Thus  frightened,  Jenkinson  bought 
the  book. 

On  hearing  of  this,  Urquhart  considered  that  he 
had  been  swindled,  and  set  off  in  quest  of  Cocky. 
That  boy  was  not  to  be  found,  however,  until  his 


MAKE  THOUGHTFUL  MEN.  141 

threepence  had  disappeared  in  tarts.  I  got  to  know 
of  this  affair  through  Robbins'  backing  up  of 
Cocky,  and  telling  Urquhart  that  nobody  was 
afraid  of  him.  A  ring  was  immediately  formed 
round  Urquhart  and  Robbins,  which  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  breaking  up. 

Since  I  sat  down  to  write  the  adventures  of 
"  Thoughtful  Boys  Make  Thoughtful  Men,"  I  have 
looked  through  the  book.  Jenkinson  read  several 
chapters  of  it,  and  then  offered  it  for  next  to 
nothing  to  anybody  who  had  a  fancy  for  being 
thoughtful.  As  no  bidder  was  forthcoming,  he  in 
the  end  lost  heart  and  presented  it  to  the  school 
library.  -  A  gentleman  who  visited  us  lately,  and 
looked  through  the  library,  picked  it  up,  and  said 
that  he  was  delighted  to  observe  that  the  boys  kept 
their  books  so  clean.  Yet  not  so  long  ago  he  was 
a  boy  at  our  school  himself. 


IT. 


IT. 


AS  they  were  my  friends,  I  don't  care  to  say 
how  it  came  about  that  I  had  this  strange 
and,  I  believe  unique,  experience.  They  con- 
sidered it  a  practical  joke,  though  it  nearly  un- 
hinged my  reason.  Suffice  it  that  last  Wednesday, 
when  I  called  on  them  at  their  new  house,  I  was 
taken  up  stairs  and  shown  into  a  large  room  with  a 
pictorial  wall  paper.  There  was  a  pop-gun  on  the 
table  and  a  horse  with  three  legs  on  the  floor.  In 
a  moment  it  flashed  through  my  mind  that  I  must 
be  in  a  nursery.  I  started  back,  and  then,  with  a 
sinking  at  the  heart,  I  heard  the  key  turn  in  the 
lock.  From  the  corner  came  a  strange  uncanny 
moan.  Slowly  I  forced  my  head  round  and  looked, 
and  a  lump  rose  in  my  throat,  and  I  realized  that  I 
was  alone  with  It. 

I  cannot  say  how  long  I  stood  there  motionless. 
As  soon  as  I  came  to  myself  I  realized  that  my 
only  chance  was  to  keep  quiet.  I  tried  to  think. 
The  probability  was  that  they  were  not   far  away, 

10  145 


146  IT. 

and  if  they  heard  nothing  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
or  so  they  might  open  the  door  and  let  me  out.  So 
I  stood  still,  with  my  eyes  riveted  on  the  thing 
where  It  lay.  It  did  not  cry  out  again,  and  I  hoped 
against  hope  that  It  had  not  seen  me.  As  I  be- 
came accustomed  to  the  room  I  heard  It  breathing 
quite  like  a  human  being.  This  reassured  me  to 
some  extent,  for  I  saw  that  It  must  be  asleep.  The 
question  was — Might  not  the  sleep  be  disturbed  at 
any  moment,  and  in  that  case,  what  should  I  do  ? 
I  remembered  the  story  of  the  man  who  met  a  wild 
beast  in  the  jungle  and  subjugated  it  by  the  power 
of  the  human  eye.  I  thought  I  would  try  that. 
All  the  time  I  kept  glaring  at  It's  lair  (for  I  could 
not  distinguish  itself),  and  the  two  things  mixed 
themselves  up  in  my  mind  till  I  thought  I  was  try- 
ing the  experiment  at  that  moment.  Next  it  struck 
me  that  the  whole  thing  was  perhaps  a  mistake. 
The  servant  had  merely  shown  me  into  the  wrong 
room.  Yes  ;  but  why  had  the  door  been  locked  ? 
After  all,  was  I  sure  that  it  was  locked  ?  I  crept 
closer  to  the  door,  and  with  my  eyes  still  fixed  on 
the  corner,  put  my  hand  gently — oh,  so  gently  ! — 
on  the  handle.  Softly  I  turned  it  round.  I  felt 
like  a  burglar.     The  door  would  not  open.      Losing 


IT.  i47 

all  self-control,  I  shook  it  ;  and  then  again  came 
that  unnatural  cry.  I  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone, 
still  clutching  the  door  handle,  lest  It  should 
squeak  if  I  let  It  go.  Then  I  listened  for  the 
breathing.  In  a  few  moments  I  heard  It.  Before 
It  had  horrified  me  ;  now  It  was  like  sweet  music, 
and  I  resumed  breathing  myself.  I  kept  close  to 
the  wall,  ready  for  anything  ;  and  then  I  had  a 
strange  notion.  As  It  was  asleep,  why  should  I 
not  creep  forward  and  have  a  look  at  It  ?  I  yielded 
to  this  impulse. 

Of  course  I  had  often  seen  Them  before,  but 
always  with  some  responsible  person  present,  and 
never  such  a  young  one.  I  thought  It  would  be 
done  up  in  clothes,  but  no,  It  lay  loose,  and  with- 
out much  on.  I  saw  Its  hands  and  arms,  and  it 
had  hair.  It  was  sound  asleep  to  all  appearances, 
but  there  was  a  queer  smile  upon  Its  face  that  I  did 
not  like.  It  crossed  my  mind  that  It  might  be 
only  shamming,  so  I  looked  away  and  then  turned 
sharply  around  to  catch  It.  The  smile  was  still 
there,  but  It  moved  one  of  Its  hands  in  a  suspicious 
way.  The  more  I  looked  the  more  uncomfortable 
did  that  smile  make  me.  There  was  something 
saturnine  about  It,  and  It  kept   it   up   too  long.      I 


148  IT. 

felt  in  my  pocket  hurriedly  for  my  watch,  in  case 
It  should  wake  ;  but,  with  my  usual  ill-luck,  I  had 
left  it  at  the  watchmaker's.  If  It  had  been  older  I 
should  not  have  minded  so  much,  for  I  would  have 
kept  on  asking  what  Its  name  was.  But  this  was 
such  a  very  young  one  that  It  could  not  even  have 
a  name  yet.  Presently  I  began  to  feel  that  It  was 
lying  too  quietly.  It  is  not  Their  nature  to  be 
quiet  for  any  length  of  time,  and,  for  aught  I  knew, 
this  one  might  be  ill.  I  believe  I  should  have  felt 
relieved  if  It  had  cried  out  again.  After  thinking 
it  over  for  some  time  I  touched  It  to  see  if  It  would 
move.  It  drew  up  one  leg  and  pushed  out  a 
hand.  Then  I  bit  my  lips  at  my  folly,  for  there 
was  no  saying  what  It  might  do  next.  I  got  be- 
hind the  curtain,  and  watched  It  anxiously  through 
a  chink.  Except  that  the  smile  became  wickeder 
than  ever,  nothing  happened.  I  was  wondering 
whether  I  should  not  risk  pinching  It,  so  as  to 
make  it  scream  and  bring  somebody,  when  I  heard 
an  awful  sound.  Though  I  am  only  twenty,  I  have 
had  considerable  experience  of  life,  and  I  can 
safely  say  that  I  never  heard  such  a  chuckle.  It 
had  wakened  up  and  was  laughing. 

I  gazed  at  It  from  behind  the  curtain  ;  Its  eyes 


IT.  149 

were  wide  open,  and*  you  could  see  quite  well  that 
It  was  reflecting  what  It  ought  to  do  next.  As  long 
as  It  did  not  come  out  I  felt  safe,  for  It  could  not 
see  me.  Something  funny  seemed  to  strike  It,  and 
It  laughed  heartily.  After  a  time  It  tried  to  sit  up. 
Fortunately  Its  head  was  so  heavy  that  It  always 
lost  its  balance  just  as  It  seemed  on  the  point  of 
succeeding.  When  It  saw  that  It  could  not  rise,  It 
reflected  again,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  It  put  Its 
fist  into  Its  mouth.  I  gazed  in  horror  ;  soon  only 
the  wrist  was  to  be  seen,  and  I  saw  that  It  would 
choke  in  another  minute.  Just  for  a  second  I 
thought  that  I  would  let  It  do  as  It  liked.  Then  I 
cried  out,  "Don't  do  that!"  and  came  out  from 
behind  the  curtain.  Slowly  It  moved  Its  fist  and 
there  we  were,  looking  at  each  other. 

I  retreated  to  the  door,  but  It  followed  me  with 
Its  eyes.  It  had  not  had  time  to  scream  yet,  and  I 
glared  at  It  to  imply  that  I  would  stand  no  non- 
sense. But,  difficult  though  this  may  be  to  be- 
lieve, It  didn't  scream  when  It  had  the  chance. 
It  chuckled  instead  and  made  signs  for  me  to  come 
nearer.  This  was  even  more  alarming  than  my 
worst  fears.  I  shook  my  head  and  then  my  fist  at 
It,  but  It  only  laughed  the  more.     In  the  end  I  got 


150  IT. 

so  fearful  that  I  went  down  on  my  nands  and  knees, 
to  get  out  of  Its  sight.  Then  It  began  to  scream. 
However,  I  did  not  get  up.  When  they  opened 
the  door  they  say  I  was  beneath  the  table,  and  no 
wonder.  But  I  certainly  was  astonished  to  dis- 
cover that  I  had  only  been  alone  with  It  for  seven 
minutes. 


TO  THE  INFLUENZA. 


TO  THE  INFLUENZA. 


THE  time  has  come  for  you  to  leave  this  house. 
Seventeen  days  ago  you  foisted  yourself  upon 
me,  and  since  then  we  have  been  together  night 
and  day.  You  were  unwelcome  and  uninvited, 
and  you  made  yourself  intensely  disagreeable. 
We  wrestled,  you  and  I,  but  you  attacked  me 
unawares  in  the  back,  and  you  threw  me.  Then, 
like  the  ungenerous  foe  that  you  are,  you  struck 
me  while  I  was  down.  However,  your  designs 
have  failed.  I  struggle  to  my  feet  and  order  you 
to  withdraw.  Nay,  withdraw  is  too  polite  a  word. 
Your  cab  is  at  the  door  ;  get  out.  But,  stop,  a 
word  with  you  before  you  go. 

Most  of  your  hosts,  I  fancy,  run  you  out  of  their 
houses  without  first  saying  what  they  think  of  you. 
Their  one  desire  is  to  be  rid  of  you.  Perhaps  they 
are  afraid  to  denounce  you  to  your  face.  I  want, 
however,  to  tell  you  that  I  have  been  looking 
forward  to  this  moment  ever  since  you  put  me  to 
bed.      I  said  little  while  I  was  there,  but  I  thought 


153 


154  TO  THE   INFLUENZA. 

a  good  deal,  and  most  of  my  thoughts  were  01  you. 
You  fancied  yourself  invisible,  but  I  saw  you  glar- 
ing at  me,  and  I  clenched  my  fists  beneath  the 
blankets.  I  could  paint  your  portrait.  You  are 
very  tall  and  stout,  with  a  black  beard,  and  a  cruel, 
unsteady  eye,  and  you  have  a  way  of  crackling 
your  fingers  while  you  exult  in  your  power.  I  used 
to  lie  watching  you  as  you  lolled  in  my  cane-chair. 
At  first  it  was  empty,  but  I  felt  that  you  were  in  it, 
and  gradually  you  took  shape.  I  could  hear  your 
fingers  crackling,  and  the  chair  creak  as  you  moved 
in  it.  If  I  sat  up  in  fear,  you  disappeared,  but  as 
soon  as  I  lay  back,  there  you  were  again.  I  know 
now  that  in  a  sense  you  were  a  creature  of  my 
imagination.  I  have  discovered  something  more. 
I  know  why  you  seemed  tall  and  stout  and  bearded, 
and  why  I  heard  your  fingers  crackling. 

Fever — one  of  your  dastard  weapons — was  no 
doubt  what  set  me  drawing  portraits,  but  why  did 
I  see  you  a  big  man  with  a  black  beard  ?  Because 
long  ago,  when  the  world  was  young,  I  had  a 
schoolmaster  of  that  appearance.  He  crackled  his 
fingers  too.  I  had  forgotten  him  utterly.  He  had 
gone  from  me  with  the  love  of  climbing  for  crows' 
nests — which  I  once  thought  would  never  die — but 


TO  THE  INFLUENZA.  1 55 

during  some  of  these  seventeen  days  of  thirty -six 
hours  each  I  suppose  I  have  been  a  boy  again. 
Yet  I  had  many  schoolmasters,  all  sure  at  first  that 
they  could  make  something  of  me,  all  doleful  when 
they  found  that  I  had  conscientious  scruples  against 
learning.  Why  do  I  merge  you  into  him  of  the 
crackling  fingers?  I  know.  It  is  because  in 
mediaeval  times  I  hated  him  as  I  hate  you.  No 
others  have  I  loathed  with  any  intensity,  but  he 
alone  of  my  masters  refused  to  be  reconciled  to  my 
favorite  method  of  study,  which  consisted,  I  remem- 
ber (without  shame)  in  glancing  at  my  tasks,  as  I 
hopped  and  skipped  to  school.  Sometimes  I  hopped 
and  skipped,  but  did  not  arrive  at  school  in  time 
to  take  solid  part  in  lessons,  and  this  grieved 
the  soul  of  him  who  wanted  to  be  my  instructor. 
So  we  differed,  as  Gladstonian  and  Conservative  on 
the  result  of  the  Parnell  Commission,  and  my 
teacher,  be  ingin  office,  troubled  me  not  a  little.  I 
confess  I  hated  him,  and  while  I  sat  glumly  in  his 
room,  whence  the  better  boys  had  retired,  much 
solace  I  found  in  wondering  how  I  would  slay  him, 
supposing  I  had  a  loaded  pistol,  a  sword,  and  a 
hatchet,  and  he  had  only  one  life.  I  schemed  to 
be    a  dark,   morose    pirate   of   fourteen,   so  that  I 


156  to  the;  influenza. 

might  capture  him,  even  at  his  black-board,  and 
make  him  walk  the  plank.  I  was  Judge  L,ynch, 
and  he  was  the  man  at  the  end  of  the  rope.  I 
charged  upon  him  on  horseback,  and  cut  him  down. 
I  challenged  him  to  single  combat,  and  then  I  was 
Ivanhoe.  I  even  found  pleasure  in  conceiving 
myself  shouting  "Crackle-fingers"  after  him,  and 
then  bolting  round  a  corner.  Y.ou  must  see  now 
why  I  pictured  you  heavy,  and  dark,  and  bearded. 
You  are  the  schoolmaster  of  my  later  years.  I  lay 
in  bed  and  gloried  in  the  thought  that  presently  I 
would  be  up,  and  fall  upon  you  like  a  body  of 
cavalry. 

What  did  you  think  of  my  doctor?  You  need 
not  answer,  for  I  know  that  you  disliked  him. 
You  and  I  were  foes,  and  I  was  getting  the  worst 
of  it  when  he  walked  in  and  separated  the  com- 
batants. His  entrance  was  pleasant  to  me.  He 
showed  a  contempt  for  you  that  perhaps  he  did  not 
feel,  and  he  used  to  take  your  chair.  There  were 
days  when  I  wondered  at  his  audacity  in  doing 
that,  but  I  liked  it,  too,  and  by  and  by  I  may  tell 
him  why  I  often  asked  him  to  sit  there.  He  was 
your  doctor  as  well  as  mine,  and  every  time  he  said 
that  I  was  a  little  better,  I  knew  he  meant  that  you 


TO  THE  INFLUENZA.  1 57 

were  a  little  weaker.  You  knew  it,  too,  for  I  saw 
you  scowling  after  he  had  gone.  My  doctor  is  also 
iny  friend,  and  so,  when  I  am  well,  I  say  things 
against  him  behind  his  back.  Then  I  see  his 
weaknesses  and  smile  comfortably  at  them  with  his 
other  friends — whom  I  also  discuss  with  him.  But 
while  you  had  me  down  he  was  another  man.  He 
became,  as  it  were,  a  foot  taller,  and  I  felt  that  he 
alone  of  men  had  anything  to  say  that  was  worth 
listening  to.  Other  friends  came  to  look  curiously 
at  me  and  talk  of  politics,  or  Stanley,  or  on  other 
frivolous  topics,  but  he  spoke  of  my  case,  which 
was  the  great  affair.  I  was  not,  in  my  own  mind, 
a  patient  for  whom  he  was  merely  doing  his  best ; 
I  was  entirely  in  his  hands.  I  was  a  business,  and 
it  rested  with  him  whether  I  was  to  be  wound  up 
or  carried  on  as  usual.  I  daresay  I  tried  to  be 
pleasant  to  him — which  is  not  my  way — took  his 
prescriptions  as  if  I  rather  enjoyed  them,  and  held 
his  thermometer  in  my  mouth  as  though  it  were  a 
new  kind  of  pipe.  This  was  diplomacy.  I  have 
no  real  pleasure  in  being  fed  with  a  spoon,  nor  do 
I  intend  in  the  future  to  smoke  thermometers. 
But  I  knew  that  I  must  pander  to  my  doctor's 
weakness  if  he  was  to  take  my  side  against  you. 


158  TO  THE  INFLUENZA. 

Now  that  I  am  able  to  snap  my  fingers  at  you  I  am 
looking  forward  to  sneering  once  more  at  liim.  Just 
at  this  moment,  however,  I  would  prefer  to  lay  a 
sword  flat  upon  his  shoulders,  and  say  gratefully, 
' '  Arise,  Sir  James. ' '  He  has  altered  the  faces  of 
the  various  visitors  who  whispered  to  each  other  in 
my  presence,  and  nodded  at  me  and  said  aloud  that 
I  would  soon  be  right  again,  and  then  said  some- 
thing else  on  the  other  side  of  the  door.  He  has 
opened  my  windows  and  set  the  sparrows  a-chirping 
again,  and  he  has  turned  on  the  sunshine.  Lastly, 
he  has  enabled  me  to  call  your  cab.  I  am  done. 
Get  out. 


FOUR-IN-HAND 
NOVELISTS. 


FOUR-IN-HAND  NOVELISTS. 


THE  following  is  a  word-puzzle.  It  narrates 
the  adventures  of  a  four-in-hand  novelist 
while  trying  to  lose  his  reputation.  Competitors 
do  not  require  to  be  told  that  a  four-in-hand 
novelist  is  a  writer  of  fiction  who  keeps  four 
serial  tales  running  abreast  in  the  magazines.  The 
names  of  specimen  four-in-hand  novelists  will  recur 
readily  to  every  one.  The  puzzle  is  to  discover 
who  this  particular  novelist  is  ;  the  description,  as 
will  be  observed,  answering  to  quite  a  number  of 

them. 

****** 

A  few  years  ago,  if  any  one  in  Fleet  street  had 
said  that  the  day  would  come  when  I  would  devote 
my  time  to  trying  to  lose  my  reputation,  I  would 
have  smiled  incredulously.  That  was  before  I  had 
a  reputation.  To  be  as  statistical  as  time  will 
allow — for  before  I  go  to  bed  I  have  seven  and  a 
half  yards  of  fiction  to  write — it  took  me  fifteen 
years'  hard  work  to  acquire  a  reputation.      For  two 

161 


162  FOUR-IN-HAND   NOVELISTS. 

years  after  that  I  worked  as  diligently  to  retain  it, 
not  being  quite  certain  whether  it  was  really  there, 
and  for  the  last  five  years  I  have  done  my  best  to 
get  rid  of  it.  Mr.  R.  L,.  Stevenson  has  a  story  of 
a  dynamiter  who  tried  in  vain  to  leave  an  infernal 
machine  any  where .  It  was  always  returned  to  him 
as  soon  as  he  dropped  it,  or  just  as  he  was  making  off. 
My  reputation  is  as  difficult  to  lose.  I  have  not 
given  up  the  attempt  yet,  but  I  am  already  of  opin- 
ion that  it  is  even  harder  to  lose  a  reputation  in 
letters  than  to  make  one.  My  colleagues  will  bear 
me  out  in  this. 

If  I  recollect  aright — for  I  have  published  so 
much  that  my  works  are  now  rather  mixed  up  in 
my  mind,  and  I  have  no  time  to  verify  anything — 
the  first  place  I  thought  to  leave  my  reputation  in 
was  a  volume  of  pot-boilers,  which  I  wrote  many 
years  ago  for  an  obscure  publication.  At  that  time 
I  was  working  hard  for  a  reputation  elsewhere,  and 
these  short  stories  were  only  scribbled  off  for  a  liveli- 
hood. My  publisher  heard  of  them  recently,  and 
offered  me  a  hundred  pounds  for  liberty  to  repub- 
lish them  in  book  form .  I  pointed  out  to  him  that 
they  were  very  poor  stuff,  but  he  said  that  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  I  had  a  reputation  now, 


FOUR-IN-HAND   NOVELISTS.  1 63 

and  they  would  sell.  With  certain  misgivings — 
for  I  was  not  hardened  yet — I  accepted  my  pub- 
lisher's terms,  and  the  book  was  soon  out.  The 
first  book  I  published,  which  was  much  the  best 
thing  I  ever  wrote,  was  only  reviewed  by  three 
journals,  of  which  two  were  provincial  weeklies. 
They  said  it  showed  signs  of  haste,  though  every 
sentence  in  it  was  a  labor.  I  sent  copies  of  it  to 
six  or  seven  distinguished  literary  men — some  of 
whom  are  four-in-hand  now — and  two  of  them  ac- 
knowledged receipt  of  it,  though  neither  said  he 
had  read  it.  My  pot-boilers,  however,  had  not 
been  out  many  weeks  before  the  first  edition  was 
exhausted.  The  book  was  reviewed  everywhere, 
and,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  enthusiastically 
lauded.  It  showed  a  distinct  advance  on  all  my 
previous  efforts.  They  were  model  stories  of  their 
kind.  They  showed  a  mature  hand.  The  wit  was 
sparkling.  There  were  pages  in  the  book  that  no 
one  could  read  without  emotion.  In  the  old  days 
I  was  paid  for  these  stories  at  the  rate  of  five  shill- 
ings the  thousand  words  ;  but  they  would  make  a 
reputation  in  themselves  now.  It  has  been  thus 
all  along.  I  drop  my  reputation  into  every  book  I 
write  now,  but  there  is  no  getting  rid  of  it.     The 


164  FOUR-IN-HAND   NOVELISTS. 

critics  and  the  public  return  it  to  me,  remarking 
that  it  grows  bigger. 

I  tried  to  lose  my  reputation  in  several  other 
books  of  the  same  kind,  and  always  with  the  same 
result.  Barnacles  are  nothing  to  a  literary  reputa- 
tion. Then  I  tried  driving  four-in-hand.  There 
are  now  only  five  or  six  of  us  who  are  four-in-hand 
novelists,  but  there  are  also  four-in-hand  essayists, 
four-in-hand  critics,  etc.,  and  we  all  work  on  the 
same  principle.  Every  one  of  us  is  trying  to  shake 
himself  free  of  his  reputation.  We  novelists  have, 
perhaps,  the  best  chance,  for  there  are  so  few 
writers  of  fiction  who  have  a  reputation  to  lose  that 
all  the  magazine  editors  come  to  us  for  a  serial  tale. 
Next  year  I  expect  to  be  six-in-hand,  for  the  pro- 
vincial weeklies  want  me  as  well  as  the  magazines. 
Any  mere  outsider  would  say  I  was  safe  to  get  rid 
of  my  reputation  this  year,  for  I  am  almost  beating 
the  record  in  the  effort.  A  novelist  of  repute,  who 
did  not  want  to  lose  his  reputation,  would  not 
think  of  writing  more  than  one  story  at  a  time,  and 
he  would  take  twelve  months,  at  least,  to  do  it. 
That  is  not  my  way.  Hitherto,  though  I  have 
been  a  member  of  the  literary  four-in-hand  club,  I 
have   always   been  some  way  ahead  with  at  least 


FOUR-IN-HAND   NOVELISTS.  1 65 

two  of  my  tales  before  they  begin  to  appear  in 
serial  form.  Yon  may  give  up  the  attempt  to  lose 
your  reputation,  however,  if  you  do  not  set  about 
it  more  thoroughly  than  that ;  and  the  four  novels 
which  I  began  in  January  in  two  English  maga- 
zines, one  American  magazine,  and  an  illustrated 
paper,  were  all  commenced  in  the  second  week  of 
December.  (I  had  finished  two  novels  in  the  last 
week  of  November. )  My  original  plan  was  to  take 
them  day  about,  doing  about  four  chapters  of  each 
a  month  ;  but  to  give  my  reputation  a  still  better 
chance  of  absconding,  I  now  write  them  at  any 
time.  Now-a-days  I  would  never  think  of  working 
out  my  plot  beforehand.  My  thinking  begins 
when  I  take  up  my  pen  to  write,  and  ends  when  I 
lay  it  down,  or  even  before  that.  In  one  of  my 
stories  this  year  I  made  my  hero  save  the  heroine 
from  a  burning  house.  Had  I  done  that  in  the  old 
days  they  would  have  ridiculed  me,  but  now  they 
say  I  reveal  fresh  talent  in  the  delightful  way  in 
which  I  re-tell  a  story  that  has  no  doubt  been  told 
before.  The  beaten  tracks,  it  is  remarked,  are  the 
best  to  tread  when  the  public  has  such  a  charming 
guide  as  myself.  My  second  novel  opens  with  a 
shipwreck,  and  I  am  nearly  three  chapters  in  getting 


1 66  FOUR-IN.HAND   NOVELISTS. 

my  principal  characters  into  the  boats.  In  my 
first  books  I  used  to  guard  carefully  against  the  in- 
troduction of  material  that  did  not  advance  the 
story,  yet  at  that  time  I  was  charged  with  ' '  pad- 
ding." In  this  story  of  the  shipwreck  there  is  so 
much  padding  that  I  could  blush — if  I  had  not 
given  all  that  up — to  think  of  it.  Instead  of  con- 
fining myself  to  my  own  characters,  I  describe  all 
the  passengers  in  the  vessel — telling  what  they 
were  like  in  appearance,  and  what  was  their 
occupation,  and  what  they  were  doing  there. 
Then,  when  the  shipwreck  comes,  I  drown  them 
one  by  one.  By  one  means  or  another,  I  contrive 
to  get  six  chapters  out  of  that  shipwreck,  which  is 
followed  by  two  chapters  of  agony  in  an  open  boat, 
which  I  treat  as  if  it  were  a  novelty  in  fiction,  and 
that,  again,  leads  up  to  a  chapter  on  the  uncertainty 
of  life.  Most  flagrant  padding  of  all  is  the  con- 
versation. It  always  takes  my  characters  at  least 
two  pages  to  say  anything.  They  approach  the 
point  in  this  fashion  : 

Tom  walked  excitedly  into  the  room,  in  which 
Peter  was  awaiting  him.  The  two  men  looked  at 
each  other. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me,"  Tom  said  at  last. 


FOUR-IN-HAND   NOVELISTS.  1 67 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  slowly,  "I  wanted  to  see 
you." 

Tom  looked  at  the  other  uneasily. 

' '  Why  did  you  want  to  see  me  ?  "  he  asked  after 
a  pause. 

"I  shall  tell  you,"  replied  Peter,  pointing  to  a 
chair. 

Tom  sat  down,  and  seemed  about  to  speak.  But 
he  changed  his  mind.  Peter  looked  at  him  curi- 
ously. 

"Perhaps,"  Peter  said  at  last,  "you  know  my 
reasons  for  requesting  an  interview  with  you 
here?" 

' '  I  cannot  say  that  I  do, ' '  answered  Tom. 

There  was  another  pause,  during  which  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  could  be  distinctly  heard. 

"  You  have  no  idea?  "  inquired  Peter. 

' '  I  have  no  idea, ' '  replied  Tom. 

"Do  you  remember,"  asked  the  older  man,  a 
little  nervously,  ' '  that  when  old  John  Vansittart 
disappeared  so  suddenly  from  the  Grange  there 
were  some  persons  who  believed  that  he  had  been 
foully  murdered  ?  ' ' 

Tom  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair.  "John 
Vansittart,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 


168  FOUR-IN-HAND    NOVELISTS. 

"The   affair,"    continued    Peter,    "was    never 
cleared  up." 

"It  was  never  cleared  up,"  said  Tom.  "But 
why,"  he  added,  "  do  you  return  to  this  subject?  " 

' '  You  may  well  ask, ' '  said  Peter,  ' ( why  I  re- 
turn to  it." 

And  so  on.  There  is  so  much  of  this  kind  of 
thing  in  my  recent  novels  that  if  all  the  lines  of  it 
were  placed  on  end  I  daresay  they  would  reach 
round  the  world.  Yet  I  am  never  charged  with 
padding  now.  My  writing  is  said  to  be  beautifully 
lucid.  My  shipwreck  has  made  several  intelligent 
critics  ask  if  I  have  ever  been  a  sailor,  though  I 
don't  mind  saying  here,  that  like  Douglas  Jerrold, 
I  only  dote  upon  the  sea  from  the  beach.  I  have 
been  to  Dover,  but  no  further,  and  you  will  find 
my  shipwreck  told  (more  briefly)  in  Marryatt.  I 
dashed  it  off  less  than  two  months  ago,  but  for  the 
life  of  me  I  could  not  say  whether  my  ship  was 
scuttled,  or  went  on  fire,  or  sprang  a  leak.  Hence- 
forth I  shall  only  refer  to  it  as  the  shipwreck, 
and  my  memory  will  do  all  that  is  required  of  it  if 
it  prevents  my  mistaking  the  novel  that  contains 
the  shipwreck.  Even  if  I  did  that,  however,  I 
know  from  experience  that  my  reputation  would 


FOUR-IN-HAND   NOVELISTS.  1 69 

be  as  safe  as  the  lives  of  my  leading  characters.  I 
began  my  third  novel,  meaning  to  make  my  hero 
something  of  a  coward,  but  though  I  worked  him 
out  after  that  patter  for  a  time,  I  have  changed  my 
plan.  He  is  to  be  peculiarly  heroic  henceforth. 
This  will  not  lose  me  my  reputation.  It  will  be 
said  of  my  hero  that  he  is  drawn  with  no  ordinary 
skill,  and  that  the  author  sees  the  two-sideness  of 
ever\-  man's  character.  As  for  the  fourth  story,  it 
is  the  second  one  over  again,  with  the  shipwreck 
omitted.  One  night  when  I  did  not  have  a  chapter 
to  write — a  rare  thing  with  me — I  read  over  the  first 
part  of  this  fourth  tale — another  rare  thing — and 
found  it  so  slip-shod  as  to  be  ungrammatical .  The 
second  chapter  is  entirely  taken  up  with  a  disquisi- 
tion on  bald  heads,  but  the  humor  of  it  will  be 
said  to  increase  my  reputation.  Sometimes  when 
I  become  despondent  of  ever  losing  my  reputation,  I 
think  of  taking  a  whole  year  to  write  one  novel  in, 
just  to  see  what  I  really  could  do.  I  wonder 
whether  the  indulgent  public  would  notice  any  dif- 
ference ?  Perhaps  I  could  not  write  carefully  now  if 
I  tried .  The  small  section  of  the  public  that  guesses 
which  of  the  four-in-hand  writers  I  am  may  think 
for  a  moment  that  this  story  of  how  I  tried  in  vain 


170  FOUR-IN-HAND   NOVELISTS. 

to  lose  my  reputation  will  help  me  toward  the  goal. 
They  are  wrong,  however.  The  public  will  stand 
anything  from  us  now — or  they  would  get  some- 
thing better. 


RULES  FOR  CARVING. 


RULES  FOR  CARVING 


Rule  I.  — It  is  not  good  form  to  climb  onto  the  table. 
There  is  no  doubt  a  great  temptation  to  this. 
When  you  are  struggling  with  a  duck,  and  he 
wobbles  over  just  as  you  think  you  have  him,  you 
forget  yourself.  The  common  plan  is  not  to  leap 
upon  the  table  all  at  once.  This  is  the  more  usual 
process  :  The  carver  begins  to  carve  sitting.  By- 
and-by  he  is  on  his  feet,  and  his  brow  is  contracted. 
His  face  approaches  the  fowl,  as  if  he  wanted  to 
inquire  within  about  everything  except  that  the 
duck  is  reluctant  to  yield  any  of  its  portions.  One 
of  his  feet  climbs  onto  his  chair,  then  the  other. 
His  knees  are  now  resting  against  the  table,  and, 
in  his  excitement,  he,  so  to  speak,  flings  himself 
upon  the  fowl.     This  brings  us  to 

Rule  II. — Carving  should  not  be  made  a  matter 
of  brute  force.  It  ought  from  the  outset  to  be  kept 
in  mind  that  you  and  the  duck  are  not  pitted 
against  each  other  in  mortal  combat.  Never 
wrestle  with  any  dish  whatever  ;  in  other  words, 


173 


174  RULES  ON  CARVING. 

keep  your  head,  and  if  you  find  yourself  becoming 
excited,  stop  and  count  a  hundred.  This  will 
calm  you,  when  you  can  begin  again. 

Rule  III. — It  will  not  assist  you  to  call  the  fowl 
names.  This  rule  is  most  frequently  broken  by  a 
gentleman  carving  for  his  own  family  circle.  If 
there  are  other  persons  present,  he  generally 
manages  to  preserve  a  comparatively  calm  exterior, 
just  as  the  felon  on  the  scaffold  does  ;  but  in  privacy 
he  breaks  out  in  a  storm  of  invective.  If  of  a 
sarcastic  turn  of  mind,  he  says  that  he  has  seen 
many  a  duck  in  his  day,  but  never  a  duck  like  this. 
It  is  double-jointed.  It  is  so  tough  that  it  might 
have  come  over  to  England  with  the  Conqueror. 

Rule  IV. — Dori1 1  boast  when  it  is  all  over.  You 
must  not  call  the  attention  of  the  company  to  the 
fact  that  you  have  succeeded.  Don't  exclaim 
exultingly,  "I  knew  I  would  manage  it,"  or  "I 
never  yet  knew  a  duck  that  I  couldn't  conquer 
somehow."  Don't  exclaim  in  a  loud  gratified 
voice  how  you  did  it,  nor  demonstrate  your  way 
of  doing  it  by  pointing  to  the  debris  with  the  carv- 
ing knife.  Don't  even  be  mock-modest,  and  tell 
everybody  that  carving  is  the  simplest  thing  in  the 
world.      Don't  wipe  your  face  repeatedly  with  your 


RULES  ON   CARVING.  1 75 

napkin,  as  if  you  were  in  a  state  of  perspiration, 
nor  talk  excitedly,  as  if  your  success  had  gone  to 
your  head.  Don't  ask  your  neighbors  what  they 
think  of  your  carving.  Your  great  object  is  to 
convince  them  that  you  look  upon  carving  as  the 
merest  bagatelle,  as  something  that  you  do  every- 
day and  rather  enjoy. 


ON  RUNNING  AFTER 
A  HAT. 


ON   RUNNING   AFTER  A  HAT. 


SOME  don't  run.  They  pretend  to  smile  when 
they  see  their  hat  borne  along  on  the  breeze, 
and  glance  at  the  laughing  faces  around  in  a 
way  implying,  "Yes,  it  is  funny,  and  I  enjoy  the 
joke,  although  the  hat  is  mine."  Nobody  believes 
you,  but  if  this  does  you  good,  you  should  do  it. 
You  don't  attempt  to  catch  your  ha*t  as  it  were  on 
the  wing.  You  walk  after  it,  smiling,  as  if  you 
liked  the  joke  the  more  you  think  of  it,  and  confi- 
dent that  the  hat  will  come  to  rest  presently.  You 
are  not  the  sort  of  man  to  make  a  fuss  over  a  hat. 
You  won't  give  the  hat  the  satisfaction  of  thinking 
that  it  can  annoy  you.  Strange  though  it  may 
seem,  there  are  idiots  who  will  join  you  in  pursuit 
of  the  hat.  One  will  hook  it  with  a  stick,  and 
almost  get  it,  only  not  quite.  Another  will  manage 
to  hit  it  hard  with  an  umbrella.  A  third  will  get 
his  foot  into  it  or  on  it.  This  does  not  improve 
the  hat,  but  it  shows  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
the  milk  of  human  kindness  flowing  in  the  street 

179 


180  ON    RUNNING   AFTER   A   HAT. 

as  well  as  water,  and  is  perhaps  pleasant  to  think 
of  afterwards.  Several  times  you  almost  have  the 
hat  in  your  possession.  It  lies  motionless,  just 
where  it  has  dropped  after  coming  in  contact  with 
a  hansom.  Were  you. to  make  a  sudden  rush  at  it 
you  could  have  it,  but  we  have  agreed  that  you  are 
not  that  sort  of  man.     You  walk  forward,  stoop, 

and .     One  reads  how  the  explorer  thinks  he 

has  shot  a  buffalo  dead,  and  advances  to  put  his 
foot  proudly  on  the  carcass,  how  the  buffalo  then 
rises,  and  how  the  explorer  then  rises  also.  I  have 
never  seen  an  explorer  running  after  his  hat  (though 
I  should  like  to),  but  your  experience  is  similar  to 
his  with  the  buffalo.  As  your  hand  approaches 
the  hat,  the  latter  turns  over  like  a  giant  refreshed, 
and  waddles  out  of  your  reach.  Once  more  your 
hand  is  within  an  inch  of  it,  when  it  makes  off 
again.  There  are  ringing  cheers  from  the  audience 
on  the  pavement,  some  of  them  meant  for  the  hat, 
and  the  others  as  an  encouragement  to  you.  Before 
you  get  your  hat  you  have  begun  to  realize  what 
deer-stalking  is,  and  how  important  a  factor  is  the 
wind. 


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